


As Time Goes By

by fabricdragon



Series: The 2nd Sheriarty 30 Day challenge [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Character, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Casablanca References, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, False Identity, From Canon, I swear this has a happy ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattoos, Texting, Video & Computer Games, jimlock, mermaid, movies - Freeform, untill it isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-02 11:12:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11508231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: It started after the FallIt started years agoThey were both dead and yet...This started as  unconnected drabbles,  just attempting the 30 Day Sheriarty challenge, and then it turned into a story, with vignettes in the relationship between Jim Moriarty (under whatever name) and William Sherlock Scott Holmes... and  somehow Casablanca. The first 4 chapters are short, after that? it takes an abrupt turn into  story arcs





	1. Dreaming of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fall, Jim Dreams of a dark haired detective...  
> Fills prompts1 Dreams and 27 Movies- Casablanca

Jim Moriarty was dead.  That was a truth that couldn’t be contested: after all if he wasn’t dead, then people would still be after him, but no one bothered to hunt down a dead man. Jim smiled into the dark in a little bed and breakfast that Jim Moriarty wouldn’t be caught dead in…

Caught dead in, oh that was funny.

He’d never slept well, and he’d hoped that his death, and the loss of so many enemies would help him sleep, but he found he missed one enemy– just one.  He’d taken to dreaming about him– all dark curls and bright blue eyes and plush lips. In some dreams they were enemies– as they had been, in some dreams they were lovers, and in some they were something in between…

Jim turned and buried his head into the pillow that smelled like lavender and wondered if Sherlock dreamed about him: probably not.  He’d be in France by now, taking down the old ragged web, while Jim took his wealth and his death and built something new…

Jim dreamt of Sherlock across a table in a café, with a piano playing in the background and the smell of alcohol and roses.

“We’ll always have Paris” Jim laughed and drank his hot chocolate and Sherlock shook his head and lowered long dark lashes over blue eyes.

“I said I would never leave you.” Sherlock stared off into the distance and Jim kissed him and told him, “And you never will.”  And he sent him off of the roof to fly away for a while….

~

In a small café Sherlock Holmes sat drinking French coffee, and wondering why he had the taste of chocolate on his lips.

 


	2. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is alone on a Saturday night.  
> Prompt 2 "Date Night"

Sherlock was in Europe and it was a weekend; “Date night” as everyone seemed to call it.  He was hunting down more of Moriarty’s web, and everyone was going to nightclubs or dinners and he was alone and perfectly happy that way thank you. His thoughts drifted back to Baker Street and London, where John would unquestionably be out with some woman, assuming he was done with grieving.  If Sherlock were in an introspective mood, which of course he was not, he might even expect John to be better off now, without Sherlock interrupting and deducing his dates.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and went out on the dance floor to find someone to dance with; he’d attract less attention if he was acting like everyone else.

And if his dance partner happened to be a shorter, dark-haired man, with dark eyes and a nice suit? Coincidence, surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please fasten your seatbelts and hang on...


	3. How drunk do I need to get?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunken nights in a club, new and old  
> fills prompt 3 Drunk Shenanigans

Jim was in New York and beginning to get himself settled in his new skin, his new identity.  Jim’s new identity was VERY gay and very proud and had his hair long in the front with a blue streak that he rather liked, and would be sad to see go.  He was in one of the gay clubs and watching a tall fellow with dark curls swaying to the beat and he couldn’t hold a candle to the real thing.

Jim–Charlie this time, this city– watched the man dance and when he faced away he could pretend, and could remember… There had been a club in London, when Sherlock was just beginning to be a problem for him, and he’d backslid and was out, just a bit high, and quite a bit drunk.  Jim could have killed him there, taken him out back and knifed him and left him to die before anyone noticed…

But it would have been a waste…

And he’d swung up behind him and danced with him and put his hands down his pants and he’d been oh so willing… and Jim had pulled him into the bathroom expecting to go down on him and Sherlock had slid to his knees and pulled him out of his pants and the sight of his cock sliding in between THOSE lips was burned in his memory forever…

Charlie had another drink and watched the tall brunette dance and wondered if he could get drunk enough that it wouldn’t matter.

 


	4. Mint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie- who was Jim Moriarty until he 'died' on the roof- runs into a memory.  
> Fills 4 Tiny Differences and 10 Break Up

It all came rushing back like yesterday when Jim–Charlie– stopped at the airport shop to buy some gum and saw that brand…

Jim had broken into the flat after Mycroft.  He was still hurting and hating and all the pleasant thoughts he’d had about Sherlock had, for the moment at least, turned to resentment and fury.

Sherlock had been special, had been his, and he’d betrayed him.  Oh, Jim was certain Mycroft had started it, but Sherlock… Sherlock had gone along with it. Sherlock had left him to be tortured and the slow suffocating wetness of a cloth over your face and Mycroft’s voice saying, “I will ask again…”

Jim stopped calling him sexy then, and decided that they were over, and he was going to destroy him.

He’d been going through the cupboards and thinking pleasant thoughts about poisoning and bombs when he saw a small package of mint gum in the back of a cupboard, unopened, still sealed… It was an inferior brand with fake mint flavoring and an overly sweet edge. And he found himself caught on that over the next days, and weeks, in the trial and after…

Did Sherlock buy that? If so, it was horrible and the idea of tasting that in his mouth made him gag.

Did John buy it? In which case it might have been pushed to the back because Sherlock didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

And even as he set it in motion to ruin him– because he couldn’t get at his brother and his joints still hurt when the weather changed now, and probably would for life– he wanted to take him and kiss him and leave the taste of mint in his mouth to remember him by.

 


	5. MardiGras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 holidays and 6 smut/kink/sex and 7 afterglow and 19 Massages and 21 kisses  
> Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine...

Jim Moriarty– known as Charlie and still with his hair bleached and streaked with blue– was off in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. He didn’t really want to be here, but his business had him here the week before, and it would have looked odd if “Charlie the party” didn’t stay for Mardi Gras when he could have.

So he was wearing face paint and a little feathered mask and being oh-so-bored, because the jazz clubs were full of tourists and the streets were full of idiots and he couldn’t stab anyone– or maybe he could because honestly someone always got stabbed during Mardi Gras– when he saw a familiar shape and motion.

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine…” Jim muttered.

No one else wore a long coat like Sherlock, or moved like him, and his hair underneath the Mardi Gras mask was just a bit longer, but it was him.  It had been almost a year since the roof, and he shouldn’t be here because Jim Moriarty had never done any business here…

Mycroft.

Obviously Mycroft.

Sending him off on MI6 business and dragging him into solving his problems because God forbid the Iceman had to do any legwork himself.

And he was trying to run and to hide, and there were people after him. Jim didn’t need to see them, he could tell from Sherlock’s hunched posture and motion and before he thought, before he planned, Jim swung him out of the eddy of the crowd and pulled him up against the wall.

“Hello Sexy,” Jim said, in Charlie’s Boston voice from behind a Mardi Gras mask.

And Sherlock looked over Jim’s shoulder and the mask didn’t hide his eyes as he saw killers moving through the crowd– Jim didn’t need to look, he could read it in Sherlock’s eyes, and his pulse under Jim’s fingers.

And Jim smiled and remembered a bathroom blowjob in a club, a few years and a few thousand miles away… and pulled Sherlock down to his knees. “If you’re hiding from your ex, you could make it worth my while…” and Charlie’s voice was nothing like Jim’s but behind the mask Jim was smiling and his eyes glittered and it had been too long, far, far too long.

Sherlock’s hands were shaking as he unzipped Jim’s pants.  This wasn’t fun for him, this was terror and death and…Jim put his hand out and stopped him.

“Hey,” he let his voice go softer, “I’m sorry, I just thought…”

Sherlock leaned his head into Jim’s crotch, “My ‘ex’ has some unpleasant friends.” And Jim smiled at the voice and the power he had right now…and it would be easy, oh so easy to kill him, and only he could save him, and God wasn’t that a rush.

“We’re right outside my hotel, if you want to slip upstairs… no pressure, although I wouldn’t throw you out of bed.”

Sherlock nodded and Jim turned him and kept between him and the street as they went upstairs.  Jim could see him sweeping the room, deducing, but the business was all straightforward and would only tell him about Charlie, who worked in New York, and came from Boston and was down in New Orleans on Mardi Gras.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Jim said, tapping the mask, “But I feel like being mysterious.”

“Then I’ll ask the same,” Sherlock smiled under his half mask.

Jim sat on the bed and smiled up at him as Sherlock looked cautiously out of the window. “You honestly think they’ll keep after you? Your ex’s friends?”

“I think so, yes.” Sherlock sat on the bed and looked down at him, “You honestly may have saved my life.”

Jim slid over into his lap, “I always did have a thing for taller men,” and kissed him.  He hadn’t planned on kissing him, but something about being a different person and wearing a mask made him dare to be actually intimate. Kissing wasn’t something Jim Moriarty did often, and when he did it was brutal and taking and this wasn’t like that: this was thank you and I’m so tired and it’s been so very, very long…

“Hey, you really are tense… strip off a few layers and lie back…” and he did, and Jim ran his hands over him and could feel the year on the run, and of course Mycroft wouldn’t let him go home, and kept sending him on one more mission, on one more thing…

Jim poured some lotion on his hands and started working; running his hands over a body that he’d wanted to touch and wanted to kill– still did some days– and Sherlock started to relax for the first time in who knew how long…

Jim hummed a tune and ran his hands over that body, and Sherlock’s mask fell aside at some point.  Jim just smiled and rolled him over.  After a while, when Sherlock was relaxed but hadn’t gone to sleep, he asked, “Do you want to?”

Sherlock didn’t answer for a while, “I’m afraid I may be using you as a substitute for someone else.”

Jim bit back a dozen replies that were far too much Jim, and Charlie said, “Aren’t we all?” and got into the bedside table for supplies.

Of all the ways he ever expected to have Sherlock– against the wall in a bathroom, on the floor, at gunpoint–gentle and slow and with what he could almost swear were tears in Sherlock’s eyes wasn’t  one of them.  He never took his mask off, and Sherlock never asked him to.

“I’m called Charlie, by the way… seems rude not to introduce myself.” He said as he lay curled into Sherlock’s back.

“William,” Sherlock answered and he seemed melancholy, but not in any hurry to leave.

Later he sent Sherlock into the shower and carefully put his phone away- he’d never see Sherlock again, and if only Jim knew he’d forgiven him, well… he had the memories and a few pictures now.

After a while Sherlock came back out, all pulled together and not a trace of tears.

“I live in New York, if you ever find yourself out that way.” Jim said handing him one of Charlie’s cards and adding his personal contacts.

“I… travel a lot, it’s possible…” _No, never, but I’ll remember you._

“Kiss me; Kiss me like it’s the last time…” Jim smiled and tilted his head up.

“That’s… that’s a quote...” he sounded vaguely guilty, whether from recognizing it was a quote, or not recognizing the movie, Jim couldn’t say.

“Casablanca.” Jim smiled.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him, and it was good bye.

 


	6. Unsent and Sent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> regrets, and texts sent and unsent.  
> fills prompt 8 Unsent/Unread (TW referenced suicidal ideation)

Sherlock knew that he only survived New Orleans because the drugs had been cut, and the kindness of a stranger. He thought about Charlie often, but he’d been drugged– and the drugs had lost him in his memories– and Charlie was nothing like Moriarty. Under the glaze of the drugs he’d gotten him confused for a while with his old habits, anonymous sex in bathrooms, and terribly attractive lunatics threatening his friends.

Charlie wasn’t any of that, he was just another lonely man in a crowd, using anonymous sex to salve his own wounds over loves lost.

Except I never had one to lose, did I?

“Alone protects me,” Sherlock whispered to himself in a small hotel in Germany, as he had in so many other places.  Maybe he would begin to believe it again someday.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and called up a number he knew by heart: he stared at the text telling him to meet on the roof– the last text he would ever get from that number.

Sherlock often spoke with people in his Mind Palace, or at least their doppelgangers, but the Moriarty in his mind was a feral and crazed thing. If he was honest, the Moriarty in his mind– locked in a cell and swaddled in a straightjacket– wasn’t so much Moriarty, as the part of himself that longed to pick up the gun he’d used and join him.

Sherlock sighed and typed a text that he would never send: “Why did you leave me?–SH” and then a few days later, after far too many drinks and a few other things so that stitching a knife wound wouldn’t hurt quite so much: “I should have gone with you– SH”.

Then he thought about Charlie, and loneliness… and he sent a text.

 


	7. Games Without Frontiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fills prompt 9 Games  
> TW for drug use, past injury, anti LGBTQIA history, and self harming behavior.

Charlie was out on the town, celebrating. His day job–such as it was–was financial, almost the same as his criminal career in another life: fixing problems and finding solutions and making money vanish and reappear and it was funny that it was legal–most of it–because it was so very close to his old job. Today, though, was his second job; they were almost ready to launch and almost the whole team was actually in the same room for once.

Bobbi, Gabi, Alice, and Gwen; Mickie, Maia, Steven, Gigi, Tory and Tam… All of them together and Charlie let them take a picture, although he had his head turned down and away into Tory’s chest when they did.

“Nooooooo no pictures, never!” He took the phone away and took a picture of them all making faces and waving and so damned underslept it was funny. Gigi had even gotten her hair dyed–pink!–and Bobbi had a lock of hair in green, so they had the whole rainbow…

And he had just taken the picture without him in it when he saw the message from a strange number and his breath caught. It had been months since New Orleans…

“Is something wrong?” Bobbi asked, and he had to plaster on a smile and try to sit down.

“You look like shit. Someone die?” Tam asked–bless them: they had all the tact of a nuclear bomb.

“No… just… give me a minute?” and Charlie looked at the text again: Youre nice and youwere lonely and I hope you found someone better than me.–SH

Charlie frowned and compared this text to every other text… _High as a kite_.

He dialed the number; Sherlock’s beautiful baritone, slurred and startled, answered, “Hello?”

“It’s Charlie… What did you take, Sher–William.”

“I didn’t…” he trailed off. “A lot.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I don’t know where I am… I really haven’t for over a year.” Sherlock’s voice was wavering.

The crew had gone quiet in the bar and Mickie asked, “Overdose?”

Charlie nodded worriedly and put Sherlock on speaker, “William? Where are you? What COUNTRY?”

“Germany… I think…” and Charlie saw several of them looking at each other worriedly because it was obvious he wasn’t sober–right, Alice had lost a brother to an overdose, and a couple of them had personal experiences…

“Where in Germany…” Charlie felt his accent slip a little and dragged it back–the Americans would just take it as more Boston, luckily.

“I was stabbed… I just wanted it to stop hurting…”

“Oh God…” Gwen breathed–when she’d just been transitioning she’d been stabbed and almost died.

“Where. In. Germany?”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter.” His voice was slurring more.

Charlie looked at everyone and then took the phone off of speaker and started typing furiously, “William?” Charlie forced his voice lighter, happy, friendly, “I sent you a link… can you open it? It’s a game…”

“What?”

“For me? You owe me for New Orleans, come on… It’s a game… You love games…”

He waved at the crew and started pantomiming; luckily, most of them got it quickly.

“Send me the identity code?” Gabi whispered, her purple hair almost brushing the screen on her pad as she booted up the beta test controls. The tech crew started working–the rest of them staying quiet and bringing caffeinated drinks and food to help beat back the beers they’d been drinking.

Charlie talked Sherlock through downloading the game, and soon enough he was trying to play, absorbed in the puzzles, his responses slowing far too quickly.

“Got him,” Gabi nodded. “He’s near Frankfurt.” They started narrowing it down quickly, while Maia played against him, keeping his attention.

 _Oh sodding hell, of course he was… I’d done so damned much business there… and the drugs…_ “Opioids…” he muttered. He texted the police using Charlie’s identity–no time to anonymize it–and reported an overdose in progress and the address.

And then they could only wait.

_Sherlock, if you die on me now I swear I will destroy London…_

Sherlock stopped playing, stopped responding…

Charlie put his head in his hands and sat quietly: he hadn’t cried in decades–not for real–but he came close now.

“Tell us about him?” Alice asked.

He was getting the kind of worried looks that said he’d forgotten to put an expression on his face again–except from Tam, who rarely had one anyway. “Trying to keep me from just spinning in circles?”

“Yeah.”

He tried to put Charlie’s face back on and was fairly certain he failed. “I met him when I was in New Orleans… We had a hell of a one night stand, both of us pretty much trying to get over someone else… I get the impression his someone else kind of resembled me, and I know he looks like mine.”

“You seem pretty involved for a one night stand a couple months ago,” Bobbi said quietly–the curse of working with observant people.

“He’s a lot like my someone else, okay?”

“His signal is moving!” Gabi looked up. “GPS tracking is moving.”

It seemed like everyone held their breath until Gabi reported that the signal was moving fast and apparently on major roads… _An ambulance, please be in time… Please…_

“Hospital,” Gabi and Tory said almost in unison.

After he pulled himself together, he looked up. “I’m… uh... sorry this interrupted our launch party,” Charlie said tiredly. “How about if we blow this joint and I buy us all some real food?”

Everyone agreed and they moved to a place that had sushi and loud music and didn’t believe in the word “closed”–Bless New York for that.

…

Charlie wasn’t quite certain how he got home, but he had fallen asleep on his sofa and apparently eaten a rat, judging from the way his tongue felt like fur. He staggered to the bathroom and stared in the mirror and he’d never looked less like Jim Moriarty in his life–No… not true, he’d looked just like that in the one way mirror in Mycroft’s interrogation room, minus the blue hair. Even the slight changes to his nose and jaw were overwhelmed by the waxy pallor and the dark circles under his eyes.

He cleaned up and put his Charlie face back on, and went back to work doing obscene things to absurd amounts of money, while watching their game take off…

Alice reported that they hit their target number of users for the first week that day, and climbing. News articles started appearing about the game startup, and how being entirely comprised of LGBTQIA personnel hadn’t hurt them even slightly. “Women in Gaming” interviewed some of the team, and everyone stuck to the script about Charlie: he lived in Boston and didn’t like interviews, sorry.

He was sitting in his apartment, day five after launch, and scrolling through the stories–good, bad, and ridiculous–when he got a text alert…

He looked at the message, trying to brace for anything…

I’d phone you but I was intubated and my throat hurts.–W

Relief crashed over him like a wave. I’m just glad you’re alive.–C _and well enough that you remembered to sign it William this time._

How did you do this? How did you find me?–W

Why did you find me?–W

Why? Why do people do anything?–C

As to how? I had you download the test version of our new game, the one we gave the Beta testers. It’s set up so our tech people can access it. We tracked your GPS. You called during our launch party.–C

Ah… Is that what this is on my phone?–W

Yes. If you log in and I log in, we can even chat in the game–the Beta test version has some features we haven’t rolled out yet.–C

I can’t talk yet, but… that would be nice.–W

I’m glad you texted me, but I’m kind of mad about the reason… I spent a lot of time wondering if we’d gotten to you in time.–C

I’m sorry; it was a stupid thing to do.–W

Just so we’re clear, overdosing was stupid, texting me was smart.–C

You owe me make up sex; I’ll even put the mask on again–C

There was a long pause before he replied. I actually think I might like that.–W

Is that so hard to believe?–C

I don’t, normally… like that. Sex. Something’s wrong with me.–W

_You think… Oh Sherlock, Honey…._ You think something’s wrong with you because you don’t normally like sex?–C

Obviously. Everyone likes it, wants it, acts mad over it.–W

Oh, honey… here: http://www.asexuality.org/ seriously, it’s okay! I’ve got my own quirks, and one of my best marketing people is Demisexual, and one of our top programmers is completely Asexual and wouldn’t have sex for a million dollars and a pony!

There was a very long pause. Do they want a pony?–W

Jim broke out from under Charlie’s persona and cackled madly. _Yeah, that was Sherlock…_

It’s a phrase-eye roll–anyway, you rest, but I’m glad you’re okay. Let me know how you like the game now that you are seeing it and not just pretty colors… remember your version has more features than the one other folks are playing right now.–C

Alright.–W

Thank you.–W

Jim Moriarty shook his head and looked down at his phone. _Honestly, why would Sherlock be surprised that he didn’t want to have sex with people? People were boring… most of them_. He smiled slowly. He pulled up the photo of his crazy multi-colored team at the launch party and sent it to Sherlock.

There. That’s the fabulous and fascinating group of people who saved your life with a game. Every single one of us is at LEAST one of the letters in LGBTQIA. You’re not that strange.–C

Get some rest, and look up that link.–C

I’ll play your game when I feel a bit better.–W

Then I’ll see you online. Get some rest.–C

~

Sherlock collapsed back onto the hospital bed. After a few minutes when he recovered enough he looked at the photo Charlie had sent him again. There was a group of people–most of them with artificially colored hair or streaks–laughing, hugging… except two of them weren’t hugging, or even touching… one woman was standing slightly aside looking happy but not touching, and one person–Sherlock thought they were male but couldn’t be entirely certain–was standing in the middle of things with a blank expression. Two of the women were in a posture that could only be described as intimate, but the rest he couldn’t tell.

Sherlock identified Charlie by the blue shock of hair–he’d buzzed the rest of it shorter since New Orleans, but left that long. Charlie was hiding his face into a small mountain of a man: since Charlie was about 175 centimeters–based on a rather intimate recollection–then allowing for Charlie’s posture that man must be 193. Sherlock looked the image over again: craft brewery beers, and several people drinking soda, everyone looked very tired, but happy–their launch party, he’d said.

Charlie didn’t look intimate with that man, he looked like he was laughing and hiding from the camera. Sherlock thought he saw a hint of a tattoo… a lot of the people in the picture had tattoos; he supposed it went with the peculiar hair.

He brought back the memories of New Orleans: Charlie saving his life although he probably didn’t know how true that was… recognizing that he was frightened and hurting at least… he remembered a massage, sex, and feeling safe enough to be able to sleep for the first time in days at least… he’d admitted he was trying to use him as a substitute for someone–he hadn’t known he was until he said it.

He’d thought of Charlie as just another anonymous sexual encounter… until the massage… until the kindness… until he hadn’t said a word about Sherlock crying… And he hadn’t contacted him because he didn’t want to see the ordinary boring person behind the drug fueled fantasy…

And he’d been brilliant, and kind, and he cared…

He looked at the group of people who didn’t fit in, but who fit in together… He’d had a group like that–a small one–of people who accepted him. Most of them thought he was dead now. He’d come awfully close to being dead too many times in the past year.

Maybe… when this was all over–if it was ever over–he could go to New York and meet them in person. Until then, he would play their game and meet them that way…

After all, you could tell a lot about a person by the games they played.


	8. Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft noticed, of course.  
> fills prompt 12 Meeting Family

Sherlock wasn’t surprised when Mycroft called him.  He’d been moved out of the hospital and into an inconspicuous house with a nurse and several guards. He expected Mycroft mostly waited until his voice wouldn’t be so rough.

“If you are so insistent on dying, you could have spared us all the work of faking your death in the first place.” Mycroft’s voice dripped acid– _he was worried_.

“Yes, well, I’m fine.”

Mycroft made that throat clearing noise that always preceded awkward conversations. “Explain who Charles Jameson is?”

 _Charlie_ … “How do you know that name?”

“He texted the police in Frankfort and gave them your address along with the fact that it was an opioid overdose in progress.  I would like to know who he is to you, how you met him, and how he knew.”

“Charlie is just…” Sherlock sighed; he wasn’t ‘just’ anything, really, “a man who saved my life twice.”

Mycroft’s voice sharpened, “Now I definitely need an explanation.”

“I met him in New Orleans: he was in New Orleans for Mardi Gras– well, actually he was there on business and stayed through Mardi Gras– and I hid from the assassins in his hotel room.” Sherlock said with a sigh; he’d been hoping to leave poor Charlie out of his brother’s attentions.

“You mentioned escaping them, not help: details?”

“I wanted him left out of this: it isn’t safe.”

“Far too late now.”

 _True_. “I reminded him of an ex-boyfriend, and I told him I was ducking because my ex had friends who were after me.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the phone, “which wasn’t true at all, since these were YOUR problems, not Moriarty.”

“We didn’t know that until it became obvious.” Mycroft reminded him, “Unfortunately Moriarty’s business crossed into a great deal.”

“Yes, well… Charlie took me up to his hotel room and was kind enough to let me sleep after and use his shower. He gave me his business card, private number, and email, and I thought that would be the end of it.  I was never going to see him again since I had no reason to go to New York–”

“The press thinks he lives in Boston.”

“He’s from Boston, but he lives in New York,” Sherlock frowned and then sat up, “press?”

“He is the financial backer for a new game design company: they have been in the news quite a bit.”

“Oh… I hadn’t had time to look them up.  The game is quite good though.”

“If you hadn’t looked this up, how do you know the game is good?”

“Because that’s how he saved my life this time.  I apparently texted him while I was high and he phoned me almost immediately– from the sound of it he, and possibly a few of the other members of the company, have some experience with overdoses.”

“Details, Sherlock.” He could practically hear Mycroft pinching his nose.

“He had me download the game– the beta testing version– and then the technical people tracked my phone.  I apparently texted while they were all together for their launch party.”

“And he’s a medium height brunet, of course.” Mycroft sighed.

“I was running from assassins, Mycroft, I hardly picked him out!” Sherlock snapped. “Yes, he had a resemblance, but I assure you he is NOTHING like Moriarty.” Sherlock muttered, “He’s nice…”

He hadn’t realized he’d said that last part out loud until Mycroft replied, “Well, Moriarty was certainly not that.”

“Leave Charlie alone, he’s not involved!”

“He has now been involved twice–intimately involved if I interpret you correctly,” Mycroft said drily, “and knowing your propensity for trouble I am going to be checking the entire company.”

Sherlock sighed, _might as well get this over with– the sooner Mycroft  reassured himself  they weren’t all  intelligence agents or something the better_ , “Here… it’s the only photo I have.”  He sent him the photo of the launch party. “Charlie is the one with blue hair.”

“Hmm… the company page photos are all game icons– Charles sent this? Not exactly a typical photo to send a lover.”

“We aren’t lovers, Mycroft; it was one night.  That was a photo of the launch party– I think he took it right before I texted, so he sent it to me when I woke up and texted him that I was alright.  I spoke to several of them when they were finding me, although I barely remember.  I’ve played against a few of them in the game, though; they’ve been appreciating my help in Beta testing some of the new features.”

“It was a very close call, Sherlock; between the overdose and the infection…”

“And Charlie and his company saved my life, Mycroft, the least you can do is not bother them.”

“I will try to be as discreet as possible.”

*

He’d saved Sherlock’s life. He was probably a spy. Spies are rarely well known for being involved in some sort of radical gay business plan. He was yet another of Sherlock’s drug fueled hook ups.  He was in New Orleans for Mardi Gras and picked up my baby brother. He helped hide him and didn’t throw him out after he was done with him like MOST of Sherlock’s drug fueled hook ups. Sherlock was sounding fond of him, which was a disaster in the making. He was another damned Moriarty substitute– the Watson substitutes were easier to deal with. He was involved in some kind of rainbow pride themed online game. I have a headache.

Mycroft stared at the photo in distaste and then downloaded it to the main computers and started analyzing it: Taken on a cell phone of course, albeit a very good one, definitely New York City– he set the image capture to find the restaurant– He started lining up the cartoon images from their webpage to the photo– this was almost all of the listed full time employees:

Charles Jameson: financial backer and part time programmer– obviously the one in most need of a background check.  He had no cartoon icon  on the webpage, but Sherlock had identified him in the photo: Blue hair forelock over buzz cut brown hair, gay, stained shirt, worked as a financial analyst and investment broker, Tattoos– most of them appeared to have tattoos– not involved with the man he was leaning into-just friends. Mycroft frowned, completely insufficient.

People listed as programmers and network staff: Bobbi, Gabi, Mickie, Maia, Steven, and Tam.

People listed as network support and sales: Alice, Gwen, and Tory.

People listed as international sales, support, and translation: Gigi, Max, and Charlie– Judging from the cartoon icons Charlie was Charles– same brown hair with a blue forelock, Gigi was evidentially the girl with pink hair, Max was apparently not at the launch party. So Charles Jameson, financial backer, was also Charlie– and Sherlock called him that– part of the international team.  Mycroft wondered if he’d been in New Orleans for his game business or the financial business.

Mycroft studied the webpage and the photo, staring at the hair colors and clothing with distaste. _They don’t even list their full names…_ He looked at the photo again _, I can’t even tell the GENDER on some of these people!_ He started the background checks running and got back to his work.

*

Charlie was in the game office for a change when his cell phone rang.  _Blocked number? Spam_. He went back to talking to Gigi about the translation into Japanese and some of the dialect issues. It rang again– blocked number. He hit ‘hang up’ and went on.  It must have been an auto dialer because it rang several more times in the next hour.

Alice poked her head into the room. “Charlie? There’s a call for you.”

“I’m never here, you know that,” he frowned, “so what’s up?”

“Guy with a damned posh British accent says he’s William’s brother?”

Charlie froze. _Mycroft? MYCROFT?! How would he– oh, of course_.  He pulled himself together. “Tell him to give me a minute.”

He went and got himself a coffee, closed himself in his office, and picked up the phone. “This is Charlie, what’s up?” he said sipping his coffee audibly into the phone– the informality and the sipping noises would drive Mycroft up the wall.

There was that throat clearing noise– Charlie tensed and forced himself not to grit his teeth– “Mister Jameson? This is Michael, I’m William’s brother. I tried to reach you, but you don’t answer your phone.”

“Oh? Was that you? I never answer blocked numbers– always someone trying to sell me something.” He sipped his coffee again.  He pictured Mycroft grinding his teeth and smirked.

“I wanted to thank you for getting medical help to my brother–”

“He was damned lucky he texted when everyone was there.”

“Yes, well… I’m a bit more concerned about you at the moment.”

“Me? Why?” he sipped his coffee steadily.

“My brother has a propensity to get involved with… problems.”

 _Now THERE’S an understatement…_ “Oh? Well, drug habits… but he said someone stabbed him– a lot of us have been attacked for being different.”

“I meant the fact that your background check is questionable.”

“You ran a background check on me?” –siiiip– “For getting your brother medical help?”

“I am rather protective of my brother, especially since he refuses to look after himself.”

“Okay, so?” He noisily finished off the coffee. He heard what sounded like a pencil snap and grinned.

“Your background is…questionable.”

“I’m sure it is: what in specific?”

“Everything prior to a few years ago seems to be rather sketchy.”

“Yeah, I changed my name and moved– your point?”

“WHY is your background so sketchy and why did you change your name?”

“None of your damned business,” he said cheerfully, “But given that we are openly an LGBTQIA – or QUILTBAG if you like that acronym better– company, you could make a few guesses.”

“You were never female.” Mycroft said certainly.

Charlie was vaguely annoyed at that. “Why so sure about that?”

“My brother may have his issues, but he is observant and the scars for gender change would be noticeable– to him at least.”

Charlie grinned, “Okay Michael, I’ll give you that.” _Damn, too close to my old speech pattern and I almost slipped back to Mikey._

There was a lengthy pause. “My… work is security conscious, Mister Jameson–”

“Charlie.”

Mycroft sighed, “Charles?”

Charlie nodded, “Okay, Charles. Your work?”

“People have tried to use my brother to get to me before, and… he seems to be fond of you; I would not like seeing him used.”

 _Oh, right… the Iceman actually cared about him a little._ He softened his voice a touch, “I was down in New Orleans on business, and stayed through Mardi Gras since I’d never been.  He ran almost into me running away from some guys… If I was trying to pick a specific person up, I can think of better ways.”

“You could have been working with them, having them drive him right to you.”

“Paranoid much?”

“Yes, but I have seen things like this happen.”

“Look, the business meeting was planned months in advance– you assume I could have set that up? That sounds kind of like a plot from a bad spy novel.” He sighed, “I need more coffee.”

“I admit it seems odd, and even odder that my brother would happen to call you during your... launch party?”

“Yup, I wasn’t expecting him to call after all this time.”

“At Giarno’s.”

“Yeah… how do you know that?” Charlie reined his voice back with effort.

“My brother sent me a photo…”

_Oh holy mothefucking everloving shit I am so stupid of course he would… and Mycroft … wait… he couldn’t tell it was me?_

“Photo?  You mean the goofball shot of the crew I sent him? Oh jeez… don’t let that get out; we’d all been up for like three days!”

“I have no intention of publishing it.  I had someone ask at Giarno’s; you all left immediately after my brother would have gotten to the hospital– it was suspicious.”

“You really are one controlling asshole, you know that?”

“Believe it or not, I am aware of it.” Mycroft said drily: Jim– _CHARLIE_ , he reminded himself– fought to keep from chuckling.

“Having to rescue an overdose kind of wrecked the party– a couple of us have personal experiences with it one way or another– we went over to another place to get sushi and stayed up far too late and when I woke up the next morning I felt like my tongue had been replaced by a gerbil. What’s your point?”

“My brother has a type– you fit it. There are agencies that would use that to get to him–”

“He has a type? I fit it…? What?”

“He was involved in what I can only call an abusive and dangerous relationship.  The man was your height, brown hair, dark eyes– my brother admitted you bore a resemblance–You are at least the fourth pick up that matches that type…” Mycroft sighed and actually sounded tired, like he had toward the end of his time in the man’s cells, “at least. I cannot picture you or your company working for most agencies I am concerned with, but the fact remains that it was easily predictable that you could attract his attention.  The fact that you appear to be fairly intelligent would be a further match of type,” Mycroft muttered, “He’s never contacted any of the others again.”

Charlie sat staring at a wall. _He’s… been picking up people who look like me? That’s why the photo doesn’t ring any alarm bells, even to Mycroft…_

“Ah… I don’t think he planned on contacting me again, actually… and… he kind of looks like an ex of mine, too.”

“Was yours also a very bad relationship?”

“No… yes… it was complicated.  His family…. didn’t approve.”

“Didn’t approve of a gay relationship?”

“Among other things. Look, I may be projecting a bit onto you… his big brother beat me up pretty badly– probably would have killed me if he could have.” _No projecting at all, there, is there big brother?_ “Look, you won’t find anything about my background because I left home and changed my name as early as I could– my own family was abusive as hell. I did my best to make sure NO one would ever be able to connect Charles Jameson with my birth name.”  _True enough, true enough about Jim Moriarty’s name too._

“Ah…I’m just concerned.” Mycroft sighed, “Between his risk taking and the drugs, I hope you understand that he is very vulnerable.”

“Oddly enough I do– I talked to him a bit; he sounded kind of lost. I had the impression his upbringing was pretty sheltered and pretty strict.”

A long period of silence and then, “I’m seven years older than he is.  It was difficult, especially with me having to drag him to rehab.”

 _Good God, Mycroft almost sounded human_. “I’m not stalking him; I didn’t have any clue I was going to ever hear from him again– although I would like to– and as far as I know running into him in New Orleans was pure chance.” Charlie said firmly.

“As I said, he seems to have become fond of you, and I understand he’s been talking to some of your staff?”

“Staff, partners, family of choice; yeah?”

“I am going to give you my personal phone number and email.  If anyone else gets this I will be upset.”

 _You’re gonna what?!_ “Uh… okay?”

“I do not expect you to refrain from breaking up with my brother on my account–”

“We aren’t going out!”

“As you wish. I simply state that if you ARE using him, you had better cease immediately– I become an extremely dangerous opponent when my brother is threatened.”

 _Yeah, you do._ “You sound like a B movie.”

Mycroft recited an email and a phone number, “Do you have that?”

“Yes.”

“Use that only if my brother is in trouble– serious trouble, my brother is always in some kind of trouble– or if someone tries to approach you to spy or report on him.  I’ll deal with it.”

“Sure…can I ask you a question?”

“You may ask; I make no guarantees about answering.”

“He’s… picked up other guys that look like me?”

“No, other men who look like HIM… you are, as I said, at least the fourth. I’ll grant you that he says you treated him better.”

There was a clicking noise; Jim Moriarty remembered hearing it before as Mycroft checked his pocket watch– which was ridiculous since he had an unerring sense of time– just a nervous habit, one of his few tells.

“Sadly, I have a meeting. Good day.”

“Yeah, sure… you too...”

He sat in his office for a while before he came out and apologized, “I’m heading home early– call me if you need, okay?”

“You alright?” Alice asked: he saw the rest of the office folks either looking openly–Tam– or trying to pretend they weren’t.

“I… don’t like thinking about ancient history, you know?” he shrugged.

“Did he say something?”

“He…” there was no way to explain any of this to them except the story he’d given Mycroft, “It just reminds me of my first real boyfriend, that’s all– his older brother almost beat me to death. Look, I gotta go.”

“Go get some more ink.” Mickie said suddenly from their desk.

“What?”

“Endorphins, and it’s pain that doesn’t kill you,” Mickie shrugged, “And even if that doesn’t work you get a cool tattoo.”

“Heh. Yeah, maybe. Do me a favor guys, be even more careful about my info?” he asked, and everyone nodded.

 _Mycroft. God damn it MYCROFT_ … Jim went home and sat staring out over the city– or the parts of it outside his apartment anyway– wondering what it would take to get the Holmes brothers out of his life.

 


	9. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tattoos and Talk  
> was supposed to be Fluff, but turned into Fluff and Angst. fills prompt 11 Fluff and 23 angst,   
> so much angst.

Much to Charlie’s surprise Sherlock began texting him occasionally– usually just short things, a comment on a book, or the news, sometimes a random observation about some obscure thing– he never mentioned the conversation with Mycroft. He kept playing the game, too.  His tech people adored and hated him in equal measure because he found every possible flaw. Remembering his life as Jim Moriarty and the detective’s persistence in tearing apart HIS games made him bite his lip and smile whenever they complained about it.

It had been several days after the last text when Charlie decided to initiate the conversation for once.

I’m considering another tattoo.–C

Oh? what do you have now?–W

You don’t remember?–C

I… was face down most of the time.–W

Grin, true.–C 

Alright, I have “liberation” by Escher on my side, from just above my hip to the middle of my ribs; I have a Celtic knot work armband on my right arm; and a twisted feather on my left leg in black and white but accented with the rainbow ROYGBIV.–C

They’re right when they say tattoos are addictive, I just meant to stop at one–C

So what are you considering next?–W

“Memento Vivare, Memento Mori” right over my heart.–C

There was a pause and then, Why?  What do they mean to you? I can normally tell, but I don’t actually know you that well.–W

Charlie considered and decided that the truth, carefully phrased, wouldn’t hurt. Well first of all, there are some details that are intensely private and I don’t know you well enough yet to talk about.–C

Fair.–W

So… “Liberation” covers a scar or two I got from being beaten by my ex’s brother and his friends.  It also represents my new life.–C

There was a very long pause. Why did you get beaten?–W

Charlie stared at the phone for a while… Didn’t your brother tell you about our conversation?–C

A short pause and then: My brother called you.  of course he did. He PROMISED me he would be discreet.  I’m sorry; no he didn’t tell me anything. I suppose I should be grateful you’re still talking to me.–W

Oh. I assumed…yeah, my first… anyway his family didn’t approve of us, and there were other problems. please drop it.–C

So, your other tattoos?–W

Celtic  knot-work armband on my bicep, because hello… Irish.–C

There was a very long pause.

 _Was it that much of a shock?_ Hello?–C

Sorry… my… Ex, the one you reminded me of, just a little, was Irish.  You don’t sound Irish.–W

_I should hope not, I’m damn good at voices._ I’m from BOSTON! Half the city is Irish!–C

Oh… he was from Ireland.–W

Never been there. I’m American Irish, my home country roots for the Red Sox.  You know, after centuries of suffering we emigrated to the United States and were naturally drawn to suffer further so we cheer for the Red Sox?–C

No answer.

Are… wow, is my being Irish that much of an issue?–C

It shouldn’t be.–W

But it is.–C

Yes.–W

Don’t go to Boston, then.–C

I think its just… Tell me about the feather?–W

Well  the rainbow is for Pride...–C

Got that.–W

Feathers… feathers are awesome.  The engineering is beyond belief, so fragile and so light and yet they can hold up under incredible stress.They represent dreams, and flying… that and I think its kinda cool that birds are little dinosaurs.–C

They aren’t that, quite.–W

Close enough.  Besides, I had a few specific birds I thought about  getting and I couldn’t make up my mind, so I just had a feather.  It covers up a few things too.–C

Like what?–W

Maybe later?–C

Alright. So the quote?–W

“Remember life, Remember Death” I thought about just Memento Mori, but…–C

There was a long pause again. I’m glad you choose both.  How much did my brother  tell you about … anything?

Michael? He said you had an abusive ex, that I kind of looked like or something and uh… does he have paranoia issues? Because he seemed really hung up on the idea that some “agency” had set me up to get to him through you.–C

There was no reply for hours.  Charlie went back to working on various projects until a message came through.

My brother sees plots where they’re aren’t any, but he has good reason to.–W

As to my ex… he was mentally unbalanced, and involved in… a lot.  He committed suicide in front of me- he wanted it to be both of us.–W

_Yeah, maybe… but I would have preferred if you ran away with me.  You wouldn’t though, and you had me locked away in your brother’s cells._

Are… are you still there?–W

Yeah, sorry, that was… your brother sounded like you were pretty hung up on him, but…–C

The funny thing is? Everyone said so, but I didn’t realize how much I was until after he was gone.–W

_You were? NOW you admit it?_ My ex wasn’t much better I guess.–C

Insane criminal who tried to get you to kill yourself?–W

Unfeeling bastard who let his brother and his friends beat me half to death because of our relationship, and then broke it off rather than disappoint them.–C

After an hour of silence Jim sent, I hated him so much, for so long after that…I ran away, basically: started over.  Now that I look back on it, I still can’t understand it, but I’m not angry at him anymore, just sad.–C

Maybe he was frightened.–W

I eventually forgave mine– took a while– do you think you’ll ever forgive yours?–C

I don’t know.–W

Well, sometimes when I feel like  just chucking it all, I force myself to remember the good times, and the fun.  That’s why I wanted both life and death.  We all die, but not everyone lives.–C

“People die, that’s what they do”.–W

_Damn. I feel like I’m cheating on myself._   A quote?  It’s true, everyone dies.  Like I said though, not everyone lives.  If we’re all gonna die anyway, I might as well accomplish something, or at least have some fun… both if I can.–C

I’m trying.–W

To accomplish something or to have fun?–C

To accomplish something. I haven’t had a lot of fun in my life…–W

_We had fun, though, didn’t we?_ Have you considered a Tattoo? Mickie insists it’s the answer to everything; like some people use chocolate– heartbroken? Tattoo. Promotion? Tattoo. Bored? Tattoo.–C

If I got a tattoo every time I was bored I’d be nothing but ink.–W

On your skin? Too much would be a waste, but you would show off the colors so nicely… you totally should get a tattoo.–C

Of what?–W

I dunno, what do you like?–C

Music, puzzles, clever brunettes, brave blonds…–W

_Oh, yeah, Watson. Fuck him._ Nah, Blonds and red-heads… nothing but trouble.–C

My brother is a red-head; you aren’t wrong.–W

So? get a tattoo wth music and chess or something.–C

Maybe when I’m done with all this… my current business.–W

You like music? What kind? What bands?–C

I play violin, and classical mostly. You?–W

Classical is alright, but lately I’m listening to Drowning Pool and Disturbed, plus some NIN.–C

I don’t know them.–W

I… they might not be to your taste.–C

I’ve seen a lot of music tattoos. Sheet music is popular, and there are a lot of  tattoos of instruments, so a violin would be  pretty easy.–C

Could… could I see a picture of your tattoos sometime?–W

… sure.  Hang on–C

Charles stripped and walked over to the mirror.  He took a picture of the knot-work just using the camera as is, and then took a photo of the feather on his leg in the mirror. After arranging himself rather carefully he took a photo of “Liberation”– showing the curve of his ass and hints of more, but nothing of his face. It did show a good bit of the room, but Sherlock seemed so unhappy that he thought giving him something to deduce might be a nice gift.

He sent the photos along with a text I’d be delighted to introduce you to a good tattooist if you are ever around New York or Boston.

Thank you. Those are… really quite well done. I’m afraid I only vaguely remembered something about the one on your side, but as I said… I was… face down a lot.  If I haven’t, may I thank you for the massage and the chance to sleep? I hadn’t slept much.–W

_And your brother did say your hook-ups usually pitched you out_.  You’re welcome, you seemed to need it.–C

Why don’t you ever have a picture of your face?–W

Honestly?  Some of the people from my past  might like to catch up to me and I prefer to make it difficult for them; besides, I look pretty ordinary, really. I guess I have this image in my head of looking  like someone special, and I don’t.–C

You are someone very special, Charlie, never doubt it. I have to go… let me know when you get the new tattoo.–W

_You’re very special too, Sherlock_. Charlie turned off his computer and went to bed.


	10. Renaissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues hunting down Moriarty's network.  
> Fills prompt 14 Era Change (set them in a different decade, time period, etc)

 

It was Italy again, and Sherlock was sitting in a small coffee shop trying to deduce his next move. Sherlock settled himself further into the corner and fell into his mind palace. The universe slowly re-wrote itself until he was an artist, and an inventor, in Renaissance Italy. Mycroft was despairing of Sherlock ever making anything of himself, he having already married well twice–his first wife having been poisoned by drinking a cup meant for him–and having a position pulling strings behind the obvious powers that be.

They walked through the marketplace as Sherlock smiled at his protégé and bodyguard, John, and asked him what he thought of the newest commission they’d taken.

“I know you think it’s terribly dull, Sherlock, but it does pay the bills,” John answered wryly, “and if you could refrain from angering most of the prospective patrons, it would help.”

“So my brother says as well.”

“Much as it pains me to admit it, he’s right.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock smirked, “but I don’t appear to be ABLE to cease annoying people.”

At that point a group of bravos began cutting through the crowds clearly aiming for them. They played a deadly game of cat and mouse through the streets, John eventually drawing off several of them, Sherlock circling and hunting for the leader of the group, Vincente, once one of James Moriarty’s agents.

Vincente, unfortunately, was a capable man in his own right and it ended in a duel between the two of them in a squalid corner of the city, far from help. It was risky, this, Sherlock knew: Vincente was a dangerous opponent, but it was unlikely any of the Police would ever interfere–even dead, Moriarty was a name to conjure with.

Sherlock fought desperately, but he could already see the end: Vincente was too capable, and his men would reach him soon in any case…

“Luckily, Moriarty is dead,” Vincente snarled as he closed in for the kill. “His orders to leave you to him and him alone were a nuisance even before I took up our current business…”

…

“Signore? Il bar sta chiudendo.” The waitress, a young blonde woman with an androgynous haircut– _student, writer, and costumer, not dangerous–_ had probably tried to get his attention multiple times, since she was now tapping him gently on the shoulder.

“Le chiedo scusa, mi ero distratto a pensare." Sherlock gathered himself together and put down a generous payment. "Grazie per la sua pazienza.”

Sherlock went out. Some of Moriarty’s network here had survived and, without his direction, had been absorbed into the local crime syndicate–becoming both more obvious and more violent… but the important point was that they HAD simply become part of the local syndicate. This meant all he had to do was collect enough information to hand over to the Italian authorities and emphasize that whatever they had been, they were now merely part of the local problem–he didn’t have to do it all himself.

Without Moriarty… they were merely dangerous criminals: many of them operating with brilliant, but rapidly aging, plans put in place by the true genius–unable to adapt or change them. The more he dealt with them, the more obvious it became that it was less and less of a network, or web, and more what he had told us at the pool…

He was a consultant.

These criminals didn’t work for him, they had consulted him and he had given them a solution, or guided them, but only in as much as they paid for… _or it amused him_ , Sherlock had to admit. Boredom probably drove him to more involvement with their plans than they could have afforded with money.

Still, every now and then he ran across someone who was still fanatically loyal, or angry, and they posed a direct risk to his friends. There were not many left, though, not much longer, and he could go home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a grateful nod to my friend http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemary who played the role of the waitress and provided the Italian translation:  
> “Sir? The shop is closing…”
> 
> “My apologies, I must have dozed off,” Sherlock gathered himself together and put down a generous payment, “Thank you for your patience.”  
> (we debated on "dozed off" or "been distracted" and finally settled more on distracted.)


	11. Cell Block Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends and old problems  
> TW: homophobic language, assault, violence, hate crimes  
> Fills prompt 29 song fic

Charlie had met his friend Louis for dinner and a show in the city.

Louis had started out as simple cover– a friend from Boston, also in finance and investment–  but because he was so easy to manipulate, by the time Jim had been done talking to him the first time he’d been convinced they’d gone to grade school together and just hadn’t seen each other in years. However, Louis had rather grown on him; like a ratty old pair of jeans that you kept around because they were comfortable. Louis had to come to New York on business every few months and when he did he ALWAYS made time for his old friend Charlie–Charlie in turn always managed to get show tickets or something so he had something to talk about when he got home.

“So…” Louis was grinning at him as they left the theater, “You ARE the Charlie behind that new game, right?”

“Yes.” Charlie grinned back, “What gave it away?”

“The hair,” Louis nodded, “I mean, seriously, you dyed that as soon as you moved to New York!”

“True.  It’s one reason I would never work in the big financial companies,” Charlie shuddered, “Dress codes, yuck.” Charlie waved at a street busker with dark blue hair playing violin while wearing a rainbow coat, “I’d rather learn to play violin and…” Charlie listened and tossed a dollar in their case, “Not bad, but you may want to try different strings, your upper notes are a bit weak.”

The violin busker grinned, “Yeah they are, but have you priced good strings lately?”

Charlie remembered what good violin strings cost in London two years ago, translated to American currency and winced; he pulled a fifty out and handed it to them, “Ouch, yeah… here, buy a set of medium quality strings.”

Their eyes widened, “Thanks!... You don’t play? But you know what strings cost?”

“Ex-boyfriend…”Charlie shook his head and waved at them and walked on.

Louis sighed, “You know your ex comes up in every visit?”

“They do not!”

“Yeah, they do.”

“You don’t even KNOW anything about my ex, I mean seriously!” Louis was, after all, just cover and a comfortable plus one to go to theater with who wouldn’t try to get into bed with him.

Louis stared at him, “Are you honestly unaware of how MUCH you talk about him?”

“Oh? So what do you know about my ex!?” Charlie huffed.

“He was tall, like six foot, his brother was an asshole–”

“Who had me beaten up, yeah I told you that.”

“He played violin, his favorite piece was Bach parta something, and he had piercing blue eyes and dark curls, and incredible cheekbones, none of which mattered because he was SOOO clever,” Louis was now holding his clasped hands to his cheek and talking like a stereotyped crush, “and he was utterly perfect in every way except for his friends and his family who were so dead set against you and you were SURE that he would run off with you except he didn’t. He was easily bored and he got into trouble with drugs but he got clean, and he danced horribly when he was thinking about it, and fantastically when he just moved with the music, but it didn’t matter anyway because he was pretty… and he was surprisingly good at blow jobs even though he only did it once–”

“Oh my God, stop!” Charlie stared at him in horror. _I did not tell him that much!_

“And his brother is an asshole with a  job in the police– except the way you say it I think you mean like the FBI or something–”

“Louis…” Charlie had to swallow twice, “I HONESTLY talk that much about him?”

“Yeah.” Louis looked really amused, “and the guy you met in New Orleans looked so much like him it was scary, but you keep down playing it for some reason.”

Charlie sagged onto a park bench– which he generally never did because Ewwww– “Shit.”

Louis patted his shoulder, “Charlie, you seriously talk about him  as soon as you get  involved in music, theater, anything with violins, sex, dating, family problems,  and then sometimes at random… and since we USUALLY go to the theater or something; yeah I hear you go on a lot.”

“Do me a favor? If New Orleans William’s brother calls you, pretend you died or something and don’t talk to him?”

“Wait, the New Orleans guy has a brother?”

“It’s… uh… Deja vu all over again? Yeah, controlling Older Brother– luckily across the pond in London, not here.”

“Duuuuude…” Louis shook his head. “There’s coincidence and then there’s like either fate or a curse…”

“I… uh… have started to wonder sometimes, but anyway–”Charlie cut off as he looked over and found himself staring at the front page of a London paper.

“Charlie? You okay?”

“Yeah… just…hang on, will you?” He went over and purchased a copy and came back over.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, you know how it is, everyone has a double… This is just weird, though.” Jim– no, Charlie– forced a smile on his face and showed Louis the paper.

“Uh… what is it? The article about the Queen or the article about the ‘boffin’… what the fuck is a boffin anyway?”

“Fancy English word for a nerd or a geek.” Charlie tapped the paper, “See that Sherlock guy?”

“Yeah?”

“Looks enough like William to be his brother.”

Louis flipped the paper open and started muttering. After a while, “Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“You…uh… have any relatives still over on that side of the pond?”

“Probably, distant ones, why?”

Louis opened the paper to a photo of “Richard Brook” and a rather awful photo of “Jim Moriarty” being led into court.

 _Oh… already… damn._ Charlie picked up the paper and stared at it…”I guess he looks a little like me?”

“You said this William guy said you looked like his ex?” Louis asked very slowly.

“Yeah, he did.  Weird.”

“That’s gotta be something for like one of those strange coincidence TV shows,”

Charlie folded the paper back up and put it in his bag. “Truth is stranger than fiction, I guess.  It’s still weird.”

“Could be reincarnation?”

“Louis… they both died just two years ago! I’m young and pretty but not that young!”

They both continued walking; Charlie finally said quietly, “You’re a good friend.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Louis tapped him on the shoulder.

“No, not really. Kind of feel like I should move on again– you know, I do that– but I actually kind of have… friends.” Charlie could feel all of his old habits rebelling against the idea.

“Horrors!” Louis said in a mocking tone, but lightly. “Charlie… I know you think so, but not everyone is going to stab you in the back.”

“Yeah, they will. One way or another.” Charlie sighed.

“I won’t!”

Charlie looked him over thoughtfully. “Not deliberately, no. you wouldn’t.”

“You… how do you stab someone in the back not deliberately?”

Charlie chuckled darkly, “Usually by being sure you’re doing the right thing.”

“Uh… I don’t get it?”

A flash image of Greg Lestrade started Charlie giggling briefly, “Never mind, Louis… just… assume that any information getting out about me could be ‘stabbing me in the back’ and… don’t tell anyone anything personal, okay?”

“Okay? uh... I don’t think anyone is gonna ask me about you...”

“Just…don’t?”

Louis reached out and pulled him into a hug.  Charlie tolerated it from him mostly because Louis would hug a lamppost if he thought it needed reassurance. Unfortunately…

“Hey, how much to suck my dick!”

Louis, being straight, conservative looking, and generally oblivious, had never encountered the more virulent homophobes and assholes and got defensive. “The hell is wrong with you?!”

“Louis? Ignore them, walk.”

Unfortunately it was too late and he, and his buddies, started circling like sharks. As was usually the case, as soon as you NEEDED a crowd, or a cab, in New York, they all vanished.

Charlie tried to get Louis to shut  up and move, and he tried to  get them away from that little gang of would be  gay bashers, but sadly one of the decided to up the ante and pulled a knife.

“Fuck you! I’ll make you prettier you little faggot!”

Jim reacted with years of training, throwing Louis into the not-yet-armed buddies– knocking them off balance and getting Louis out of range– and faking a perfect opening for the knife wielding asshole.  He came in fast with a way of holding a knife that said movies and too many street brawls– not SAS trained bodyguards.

Jim twisted his arm as he came in for an attack and flipped him down hard onto his own knife, and then he looked up and saw two of them beating Louis. Jim came in fast, low, and took one of them down at the knees: he felt a gun stuck in the man’s waistband aimed at his own crotch and pulled the trigger through his pants before he got up.  The sound of a gunshot froze most of them for a moment, and then they scattered.

“Louis?” Charlie pulled his voice back to Boston and New York with effort, “You okay?”

“Fuck...”

“We should leave…” and then OF COURSE the police showed up.

Instead of a nice evening, Charlie found himself in a police station, and only the fact that he knew enough to call for the hate crimes unit– and the words “stockbroker” and “financial advisor” and “lawyer”– kept them from being thrown in jail just for being there.

Luckily Louis– dear Louis who couldn’t lie worth a damn– hadn’t seen ANYTHING except the gang coming out of nowhere and harassing them and attacking them.

Charlie insisted he had just done a basic self-defense Judo flip and the guy stayed down, and then tried to rescue his friend and “how was I supposed to know the guy had a GUN in his pants?!”

 _Why no officer, I have no idea how the guy stabbed himself, probably the same way the guy shot himself,_ he thought sarcastically while publically being the sadder, wiser, and more used to this, gay friend of the straight guy caught in his first brush with hate crimes.

They didn’t get out of there until morning, and poor Louis took a train straight back to Boston and his doctor– at Charlie’s urging.

Charlie meanwhile went to work, wondering how everyone would react…

He wasn’t expecting Gwen, upon hearing how he’d Judo flipped the one guy and he’d tragically fallen onto his own knife and bled out, to begin a rousing sing-along of “He Had It Coming.”

“He ran into my knife… He ran into my knife TEN TIMES…!” shouted pretty much the entire company…

And Charlie found out to his shock that most of them pretty well assumed he would have done it deliberately if he could have, and that the guy with the bullet wound in his groin deserved that and more– and they were just sorry he HADN’T shot the bastard, but better for the police, you know–and then they ordered in food, and ran Chicago up on the big screen, and sang along to Cell Block Tango– twice– as well as every other song…

And Jim Moriarty had to admit, even though he didn’t want to, that these were his FRIENDS…

and not only was he going to make sure that little would-be gang of terrorists ended up dead for threatening HIM…

But he was going to do it because they were a danger to people like THEM…

A faint tremor in something that might have been called sympathy made him wonder if that had anything to do with how Sherlock had reacted when Watson was threatened, and why it was different from the others...

He’d think about it later, for right now? Well the police weren’t used to people like Jim Moriarty and he already had the names of the dead–knife– and wounded–gun– and he was going to hunt down the rest of them and arrange… accidents.

He wouldn’t do anything, of course… nothing you could prove….

But they did have it coming.

He had Cell Block Tango stuck in his head for days…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good violin strings do indeed cost $$$$$ i have spent $45 on a set of "nice but by no means professional" strings.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrrz54UtkCc clip of Cell Block Tango from the movie


	12. Mermaids and Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hunts down Sebastian Moran  
> fills prompt 15 Crack

Sherlock knew that some of Moriarty’s people would never be found.  The ones who never wanted to be involved and had now escaped that life Sherlock could sympathize with, and no matter how much Mycroft wanted them found he wasn’t inclined to look for them. Some, however, had merely taken the opportunity to vanish and had always been trouble: Sebastian Moran was at the top of that list.

Mycroft was convinced that Sebastian Moran was in India or Pakistan, but Sherlock had carefully gone over every scrap of information, and more importantly every recollection he could pull from the man’s contacts, and determined that he was, in fact, in America. He had narrowed it down to two areas he seemed likely to be in and finally determined that the only way to be certain was to go there.

He didn’t dare tell Charlie, of course.  If he was right, and Moriarty’s former chief sniper was there, the last thing he wanted to do was put any possible attention on Charlie. The smart thing to do was to tell his brother, and he would tell the CIA and then they would take over…

But…

There were… rumors about Moran.

Rumors that his relationship with Jim had been closer than just his best sniper–and Sherlock knew it bothered him but admitting to why had only been recent– and in any case by all evidence it had been his laser sight at the pool: it was personal.

Oddly he found his house in the Florida Keys easily enough, but he had just left on a fishing trip of some kind– the man apparently lived on his boat half the year. Sherlock admired the quality of the security even as he bypassed it, and started to  scout for  hiding places and places to put a listening device, when he realized that something was wrong.

 _Something was wrong, what was it?_   He scanned the room slowly, finally settling on a slight movement of the curtain near an upper vent on the window… _oh, the window was closed but he’d forgotten to close that little vent._ He just had time to realize that was intensely wrong in and of itself when there was a sudden  sharp pain and a feeling as though he’d been punched…

~

Sherlock was standing by the pool; Jim was looking bored sitting on a comfortable chair from Baker Street, drinking tea. “Really Sherlock? You think my right hand man was incompetent?”

The sniper’s dot had been steady on John’s forehead even though John was mostly behind Jim… Sebastian Moran was reputed to be one of the best snipers in the business: he could shoot through a small vented window easily, especially if he knew the range, had an established blind…

“Are we going to be together then, finally?” Sherlock asked him curiously.

“Oh, I don’t think so, you’re only visiting.” Jim raised his tea cup to him and nodded at a Mardi Gras mask pinned to the wall, “The game isn’t over yet…” and everything went dark.

~

Sherlock eventually realized that he was conscious when the sound of water lapping at the side of a boat lined up too neatly with the rocking motion… he just barely managed to turn his head to the side before he threw up.

“Figures,” grumbled a voice not far away, “first thing you’d do is puke on my boat.”

Blindfolded, that’s why it was dark– a very good blindfold. His hands were tied behind his back and somehow attached to his ankles– rope of course; every sailor had a quantity of rope on hand. It wasn’t uncomfortable, oddly enough, just secure.

“Sebastian Moran, I assume,” Sherlock sighed, “I suppose I should apologize for underestimating you.”

He laughed, “Yeah, you should.” There was the sound of water, and mopping and then the sound of things being put away.

Sherlock lay there trying to solve the problem, getting nowhere; after a while he asked, “Alright, I admit it, I don’t understand: would you answer a question?”

“Might.”

“Why aren’t I dead?”

“Because Jim hadn’t wanted anyone to kill you but him.” There was a pause, “I don’t think he wanted to kill you most days, honestly.”

“He did a good job of fooling me, then.  He was rather insistent on forcing me to die.” Sherlock tried to be frightened but he was mostly disappointed– to come this far and die at the hands of one of the snipers seemed somehow anti–climactic.

“And yet here you are.” From the sound of it Sebastian sat down– Sherlock heard ice, and liquid pouring. “Scotch?”

“Unexpectedly decent of you; yes please.”

Sebastian carefully moved him into a sitting position– his head spun a little– and held a glass to his lips.  Sherlock sipped at it. “Over ice? Not what I would expect.”

“Developed a taste for it when all I could get was really awful Scotch.”

“Ah.”

Sebastian held the glass to his lips by an arm around his shoulders– which also served to help keep him upright– and held his own glass in his other hand.  Sebastian sat and sipped his scotch, and held Sherlock’s glass, and the boat rocked gently and it was oddly companionable.

Eventually, “So, Mister Moran–”

“Sebastian, if you don’t mind; I’m not calling you Mister Holmes”

“Sebastian, then… what now?”

“Now you swear that you are going to leave me alone; and that includes not telling big brother, or any of the assorted agencies you have contact with that you found me.”

“That… seems unlikely.”

“Jim talked about you, you know. To be honest he talked about you a lot and I was tired of hearing about you by the end of things.”

“Rumor has it that you were lovers.”

Sebastian chuckled and the rumble was friendly and warm against his side, “We were.” Sherlock tried not to react but he could feel himself stiffen.

“Jealous?” he laughed, “Don’t be; I doubt he would have talked your ear off about me– I was lucky enough to have him in bed, but you had his attention.”

“Then why do you think–”

“The snipers on your friends were expendable: Jim expected them to get caught. By the time that all went down he’d sent me out of the country-probably because I would have stopped him from going on with such a stupid idea.” Sebastian finished his Scotch and took his arm away to put both glasses down, Sherlock found himself unbalanced and Sebastian caught him, pulling him into his side as though they were old friends or lovers.

“I think I know what Jim would have wanted, Sherlock, and dropping you off the side of my boat for the sharks or calling the good snipers– the ones you’ll never find in time– to shoot your friends? I don’t think he’d want me to do that.”

Sherlock took several breaths and tried to steady his nerves, “I have no idea what Jim would have wanted, but I certainly don’t like either option.”

“Well, Sherlock, I’m safely retired, and unless Jim were to come back from the dead– in which case I would pack my bag and follow him without a second thought– I’m no threat  to anyone who isn’t a threat to me.  Do we understand each other?”

It was an easy thing to set up a contingency plan, and– just as he must have planned for the contingency of being found, and having to shoot through the vent window– if anything happened to Sebastian then Sherlock’s friends would be back under a snipers scope.

“Yes, we do.  A pity that my brother was right and you were in Pakistan.  It’s very dangerous there, I’m quite certain you died of your career before I could find you.”

Sebastian chuckled very faintly, “A pity, that: almost as much of a pity that  I **am** retired, or I’d be hunting big brother for what he did to Jim.” And then more quietly, “I would have gone to India or Pakistan, but Jim left me the house and the boat… said I’d like it here.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, actually. I go to Bermuda when I get lonely for the right accents, travel the coast sometimes…It’s alright for now–I’m even dating a mermaid, so that’s one childhood fantasy fulfilled.”

“I BEG your pardon?” Sherlock huffed at him, “there’s no such thing!  Myths and legends and ridiculous superstition–”

Sebastian laughed and finally nudged him in the shoulder, “When you get back to a computer, Sherlock, look up Weeki Wachee Springs here in Florida, and The Dive Bar in Sacramento California… You weren’t the only kid who wanted to be a Pirate, and in my case I wanted to find a mermaid, and I did– Jim probably knew that when he left me this place, damn bastard.” Sebastian said it with a sort of fond loneliness.

Sherlock would have argued but the reminder of how much Jim had been told about his childhood– and had obviously told Sebastian– silenced him.

“So the tranquilizer dart will have worn off, but the scotch was probably not the brightest idea on top of it– sorry.”

“I… think I envy you; you obviously knew him better than I ever did.”

He could feel Sebastian shrug and then he was casually lifted and carried down a ramp onto a dock. “I don’t think that he ever let anyone get to know him very well.”

He was buckled into a car seat and Sebastian started driving somewhere. It seemed unlikely he would go through all this to kill him, so Sherlock forced himself to relax as much as he could.

“If…”

“What?”

“It’s likely too personal.  I keep asking people questions or making statements about things and then they get upset.”

“Eh, I’d kind of expect it from you, frankly; go ahead.”

“If you were sleeping with Jim, why the interest in a mermaid?”

“Jim’s sex life was its own mystery, mine is a lot simpler: I like tall leggy slim people of either gender, preferably with curly hair– and mermaids.”

Sherlock felt a bit of trepidation at the fact that he matched that description but continued, “Jim never struck me as particularly tall, leggy, or curly haired– and he wasn’t a mermaid.”

“Yes, Sherlock, you’re very pretty,” Sebastian laughed, “and I wouldn’t kick you out of my bed but I doubt you’re interested in me. Jim? I don’t know, Jim was Jim– somehow the package never mattered much with him.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, because honestly? He wasn’t that interested in Sebastian– as Sebastian– but he was intensely curious about a man who had been in bed with JIM… it was probably a very bad idea.

“Do you even know you two met before the pool?” Sebastian asked suddenly as the car was pulling to the side, slowing and stopped.

“Yes, at the hospital, he was Jim–”

“Before that.”

“No…” Sherlock frowned.

Sebastian pulled him out of the car and carefully started untying the ropes. “You did… God knows he talked about it enough– it’s enough to tempt me, but I don’t think you can really consent right now.”

He stepped away and lights came on, bright even through the blindfold. “You can pull that blindfold off now.”

Sherlock did. Sebastian was standing by the driver’s side door of his car; Sherlock in the headlights was dazzled and blind.

“What do you mean, we met and you’re tempted?” Sherlock knew it was a bad idea to ask, but he never could let a puzzle go.

“Your rental car, and your things, and behind you,” Sebastian said cheerfully, “As to that? According to Jim you were stoned, or drunk, in a club in London, and he was  thinking he should kill you– although I doubt it– and you went down on him in the loo… did a damn good job of it from his telling of it.”

Sherlock took a step or two backward and his knees hit the car– he sagged into it, “Oh dear God…”

While he was still trying to  gather his not merely scattered, but possibly blown apart wits, Sebastian called out, “If you want to come back and talk– or more than talk– when you aren’t  trying to kill me, and you aren’t drunk or drugged, you know where to find me.” He started the car and drove past Sherlock, “If all else fails, get yourself a mermaid tail– you’re hot; I’d find you.”

Eventually Sherlock managed to get in the car– yes all his things were there– and he drove back to his hotel, and fell over, and slept for at least eight hours…

And when he woke up he looked up Weeki Wachi Springs, and custom tails, and the fact that you could, indeed, date a mermaid… or become one.

And Sherlock didn’t know whether to envy the man more for managing to grow up to be a pirate– of a sort– dating a mermaid, or the fact that he’d known Jim…

And then he lay back and remembered a fellow in a club, who’d come up and put his arms around him, danced with him, and taken him off to the back… and all he could remember was that he was well dressed and his shoes and the taste of him was clean and he’d smelled… of a subtle cologne with hints of leather and apples and mint…   

*

Sebastian lay on the sofa in his house with the better Scotch–no ice– and sent a text to Jim Moriarty’s message box.

You were right. I ended up having a pleasant chat and sending him on his way.–SM

He got a response after not too long: You did remember to be careful?–JM

I used the blindfold as you suggested, but I don’t think he suspects that you’re alive–SM

His brother thought I would be in Pakistan–SM

You would have been. How’s your mermaid?–JM

Fantastic.  I got a pirate coat and we’re going to a pirate festival next week. Thank you again for that, but I still miss you.–SM

As SH just proved, you can’t even know where I am until this dies down, go play pirate a bit longer–JM

Sure thing boss… and boss? He was jealous ;-) –SM

 


	13. Hidden Meanings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarot, Choices, hidden meanings and things spoken of in dreams and mind palaces  
> Fills prompt 17 Domestic

Sherlock sat in his flat on Baker Street– at least the one he took with him in his mind palace– and settled back happily. John was puttering about in the kitchen doing something with tea and he could sit and think.

“Did you miss me?” Jim laughed as he came up the stairs.

“Yes.” Sherlock admitted, because it wasn’t real and it didn’t matter. He glanced back at the kitchen, “John will be upset.”

“So?”

“He doesn’t like you...”

“The feeling is mutual,” Jim sniffed.

“He’ll come out with the tea soon.”

“HONESTLY, Sherlock, stop being so dull: It’s your mind, simply don’t let him see me, or keep him in the kitchen, or something– I know, have him run out to Tescos.”

Sherlock blinked at him a lot, “I- I could do that…”

John did indeed come out with the tea, and some sandwiches, “Since there isn’t a case, Sherlock, please eat.”

Sherlock glanced at Jim who simply lifted a tea cup and a biscuit off the tray casually– John didn’t react.

“Of course, John, thank you…” he sat there quietly, enjoying the momentary peacefulness of having the two of them in one room.

“It’s the Lovers card– the old style one, not the new one: choices.” Jim said idly.

“What?” Sherlock looked over at him.

John looked over and past Jim to the door, “Did you hear something?”

“Ah, no, just thinking.”

John stood up, “So, I’ll be going off to Tescos to get some milk, do you need anything?”

“Oh, yes, I think I’d started a list, just ignore the chemicals and I’ll get those later.”

“Right,” John smiled at him, “I’m glad you’re eating a bit, finally.” And he picked up the list and got his jacket and went out.

Jim had gotten up and was looking at the mask pinned to the wall. “It’s nice that you’re finally going out with me, but I wish you had before I died.”

“I’m not… going out with you, exactly.”

“Yes you are; they’re all me– every random brunette you’ve picked up is me.”

“The one that stole my wallet and almost knifed me was very ‘you’ but Charlie isn’t.”

Jim smiled, “Oh, he’s the most ‘me’ of all.” He came back over and walked his fingers across Sherlock’s shoulders, “How was Sebastian?”

“Dating a mermaid,” Sherlock answered drily. “You left him a boat and a house.”

“So I did,” Jim laughed, “Did he tell you no one was allowed to kill you but me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled, “We… came to an understanding.”

“That’s good,” Jim held out his tea cup, “I’d hate to have to haunt him; I have enough trouble haunting you.”

“Being dead you should be a natural at it.”

“Nothing is truly dead that is remembered, Sherlock.” Jim shook his head. “You see, but you do not observe.” Jim said sadly, quoting one of Sherlock’s own often repeated lines.

“Don’t I?” Sherlock was puzzled, “What am I missing?”

 Jim just grinned at him and held up a tea cup, which was promptly shot clean off its handle by an unseen gunman.

~

Sherlock jerked awake with the gunshot… no, he was on a plane back to Europe… he glanced at the woman who was in the seat next to him. She’d been bundled into a coat and a scarf when she got on board, but now she was sitting dealing cards onto the flight tray…tarot cards…

“May I ask you a question?”

She startled, “Oh... wow, you were out of it for a while I almost forgot you were … uh, sure?”

Sherlock gave her a cursory once over– _short hair, stylish but comfortable clothing that spoke to a great deal of familiarity with travel, not quite corporate but not able to wear her counter culture tendencies too openly_ – “Someone told me the Lovers card meant choices.”

She stared at him for a moment and then nodded, “It can.”

“The ‘old style’ card, not the new one?”

She grinned at him, “The Rider Waite deck is the one most people use these days, or one based on it but the older style  Lovers card had a man between two women– choices– one blond and one brunette or sometimes–”

Sherlock hissed. “Ah, yes. Well then...” _I’d made my choice, and then it was a moot point anyway._

“I could do a reading for you if you like?”

She had answered his question so Sherlock made an effort to be polite. “No, thank you.”

She shrugged, “suit yourself.”

After a while of staring blankly at the movie and watching her move cards and study them, “You have a job in something somewhat corporate; why… that?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, “I’m an event planner. I do the back stage work for a lot of big events.  As to ‘this’… well depending on your point of view its either a way of tapping into information out there,” she waved a hand vaguely, “or information in there,” she tapped at her head.

“Pardon?”

“I’m Emma, by the way, Emma Lee– Butterfly Events.”

“William Scott.”

She got out a completely different Tarot deck, with black and white images and hints of color– unlike the watercolor styled images of the deck she was using.

“As an example,” she said taking a card out of the deck. “Here,” she handed him the card, “This deck isn’t based on the traditional images, but the card names are. This is the High Priestess, which represents hidden knowledge.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “A tiger with a crystal ball?”

“As I said, not a traditional deck, but… instead of worrying about it, you can let your mind make connections… and your subconscious will often notice something different each time, because you have the information, you just weren’t paying attention.”

“You see, but you do not observe,” Sherlock said quietly. _Sebastian ‘Tiger’ Moran certainly had hidden knowledge, but was it worth the cost to try to get it?_ “That… does indeed bring up some questions for me– things to think about.” _He’d been Moriarty’s right hand man: his High Priest, of a sort…_

Sherlock handed her the card back. “As a tool to spur thought, I suppose it would have some value.” _Especially if you don’t have a mind palace._

“It’s useful to me.” She shrugged.

Sherlock noted a beautiful card sitting on the top of the deck she had put aside to talk to him.  It had an owl, a heron, a skeletal reaper, and an infant… “What’s this one?”

“The Close is this deck’s version of the Death card: people get freaked about it but it rarely means dying.”

“I mostly noticed the birds.” _And the skeleton reminded me of home,_ he thought wistfully of the skull on his mantle.

“Well the typical meaning is the end of one phase of your life, and the beginning of a new one; letting go of old things so you can start over– things like that.” She looked thoughtful, “You noticed the birds, so you would consider what birds mean to you, or look up the meaning of THESE birds.  Owls mean wisdom, but they can also be messengers of death.”

“In mythology I believe birds were usually messengers.” Sherlock shrugged.

She nodded. “But what the card means to me and what it means to you can be pretty different.”

“What would it mean to you?” he asked her; curious despite himself.

“Last time I pulled that card I interpreted it as not getting too upset over a loss, because it was making room for a better thing.” She smiled, “I lost a huge job– and I had been counting on the money from that– but because I wasn’t booked? I got this one, which is better. If I do a good job on this one it could open a lot of doors for me.”

Sherlock nodded, “Thank you.”

She handed him a card, “If you need an event planner…”

“Unlikely, but I have friends who might.”  He nodded at her and turned to look out the window; unlike a lot of people she didn’t seem to take it as some form of insult.

In just a few hours they would land in France, and from there he would make his way east… and after that… home.

Sherlock thought about choices, and endings, and new beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tiger as High Priestess is here: http://www.aeclectic.net/tarot/cards/the-wild-unknown-tarot/  
> The Close/Death card is here: https://www.tarot.com/tarot/cards/death/old-path


	14. But they’re such sweet creatures…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fills prompt 24) Irrational Fears  
> (Obviously contains phobias and phobia triggers)

Jim was sitting in the Tattoo parlor waiting room trying not to look at the tattoo on the cover of the current Ink magazine. When he’d come in he’d been able to just turn it over, but the other client was reading it and… _Oh dear GOD, she had a rat tattoo on her leg._

Jim very pointedly stared at his phone: eventually he glanced up– _Yup, still there: rat tattoo on the magazine cover; rat tattoo on the woman reading it._ He was supposed to see Leo to talk about his new tattoo and he was getting much too agitated. He hoped the client in the back would hurry up because this was awful.

 _Rats… Who would tattoo a RAT onto their body_? Jim shuddered. God, he hated rats. His toes curled up in recollection of the rats that used to run across his body when he finally found someplace warm to sleep, or someplace to scavenge food. Rats were, he had to admit, admirable survivors: they always found the best places first.

It had been a near thing under Mycroft’s interrogation. One of the men mentioned Nineteen Eighty-Four and the cage of rats… _If Mycroft had been there right then, or if the cameras had gotten a better angle…_ Jim shivered violently _. If they’d found out how badly he reacted to rats…_

 _I can’t take it anymore._ He got up to leave as the previous client came out of the back, only to hear the rat magazine woman shriek in alarm. His pulse skyrocketed; he spun, reflex causing him to reach for a gun, or a knife, that Charlie never carried… He saw nothing… He looked slowly over at the woman, cowering in her chair, magazine dropped and forgotten.

“Is something… wrong?” Jim cursed as his voice came out pure Dublin and not Charlie’s Boston accent at all.

“S-sorry… The guy that came out… God, that tattoo was realistic…”

 _What on earth could scare someone who thought tattooing a rat was attractive?_ He thought back over the man’s tattoos: _No, nothing even remotely frightening, just the usual..._

“The… skull?” he asked finally.

“No… The s-spider. I’m scared to death of them.”

Jim stared at her in confusion. “Spiders?”

She just nodded shakily.

“Not rats?”

She looked perplexed, “Rats are adorable!”

He shuddered.

They both stared at each other in mutual incomprehension…

“I’m going home,” Jim called to the woman at the desk–it was Michelle today. “Tell Leo I’m sorry!” And he bolted. Luckily, Michelle was studying for medical school and probably hadn’t noticed anything.

_Spiders? The woman had a RAT tattooed on her leg with a little heart and a date, like… like it was a pet or something… and she was afraid of SPIDERS?_

_Some people had the most irrational fears…_


	15. The Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock watches the stars, and contemplates  
> Fills prompt 25 Space/Astronomy  
> (The Star is also a tarot card)

Sherlock was lying on a hillside looking down over a set of buildings that weren’t there. They were cleverly disguised against satellite surveillance and on no official paperwork, and in truth he wasn’t sure who ran them now, but they had once been part of weapons and information sales chain that Moriarty used.

His brother used them too, he suspected.

Sherlock lay back and stared up at the stars, and thought about just how much his brother’s business and Moriarty’s business were the same–when you couldn’t tell until you got close enough to nearly die that it was Mycroft and not Moriarty, you began to wonder. His mind wandered back to New Orleans and Charlie…

Mycroft had finally admitted that he’d looked Charlie up rather extensively, but that Charlie had done a very good job of hiding his past. All Mycroft had been able to do was find some childhood friend named Louis who confirmed that he had grown up and gone to school in Boston, and that he’d left after his ex’s family almost killed him. Apparently, the man he’d dated–boy, probably, given the years–looked a lot like Sherlock in Charlie’s memories. _Funny how a man who had a vague resemblance to Moriarty had an ex with a resemblance to me._

The family had beaten Charlie–enough to leave scars, although as he said the psychic scars were harder to deal with. He’d been beaten badly enough to fear for his life and then his lover had left him. Sherlock expected the boyfriend had probably run away out of fear and denial. _“I’m not gay!”_ echoed in his mind… It sounded a lot like _“I’m married to my work”_ didn’t it?

He stared at the stars and started naming them in his head: _Polaris, Merak, Dubhe…_ He never used to bother with the stars; oddly, it was Moriarty’s challenges that started him on it, and it had helped so much sometimes to be able to track or find his direction from the stars. Just to the lower left of Dubhe, not very visible, would be the Owl nebula.

He’d looked up a lot about the stars during those long times when there was nothing but the game on his phone or the endless buzzing in his head. He’d looked up a lot about the Tarot and a billion other things–although he’d deleted a lot. The Owl nebula always reminded him of the owl in The Close card–Death. Owls were harbingers of death, and messengers from the dead, and symbols of wisdom and war… Owls always reminded him of Moriarty, with his dark eyes so unreadable, and his soft-looking appearance when he wanted to… Richard Brook had been convincingly frightened, and Jim from IT had been harmless and gay.

He was nearing the end of this life, this portion of his life. Only a few more strands in the web to pull and so many pieces already collapsed and gone…

And then he could go home.

He supposed he thought of John, and Baker Street, as his Polaris, a fixed point in the heavens–well, none of them really were fixed, but close enough–that he could use: his conductor of light; his compass home.

He remembered the Moriarty in his mind palace: not the one in the straitjacket, but the one in the nice suit who said Charlie and all the other men were “me”; the one who’d had the cup of tea shot out of his hand in…

His…

Flat.

Sherlock breathed out in shock and his eyes tracked to the Owl nebula–where it had to be, even if he couldn’t see it right now. _Jim could have had me killed at any time. That’s the message._

Vincente saying there were orders not to touch him.

Sebastian able to shoot him through the tiniest access and letting him live–because Jim wouldn’t want him dead by any hand but his own, and he didn’t think Jim wanted him dead at all.

Jim having been in his flat who knows how many times, and Sherlock could have been shot or poisoned or anything…

A tea cup shattering out of Jim’s hand…

_John, too._

John could have been killed as easily as dropping a tea cup to the floor. He went out to Tescos; he went to work; he chased through the streets with me. Even after the pool, when Jim let them both live, John could have been killed at any time.

The Lovers, Jim in his mind had said, a choice–HIS choice. He’d chosen John.

Had Jim killed himself because of that? Had he wanted me to choose him? Could I have convinced him to come with me, instead? To choose me if I had chosen him? The stars were blurring overhead and Sherlock wondered if he would ever know the answer.


	16. The Serpent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is captured in Serbia...he is badly hurt.. and thinking about old history...  
> TW: non graphic canon torture, discussions of anti LGBTQIA actions  
> Fills prompt 30 Free day (and 12 and 16 again, at least)

Sherlock came back to consciousness slowly on the cold concrete floor. _At least three cracked ribs; severe bruising; possible concussion; bitten tongue; strained muscles._ He dragged himself further into a corner and used the wall to sit up: it was easier to breathe that way.

Odd that after all this work–after all this time–he would end up dying because a patrol decided to slack off and drink. They’d been in the wrong place and Sherlock had all but tripped over them. It hurt a lot more than he’d expected. They obviously knew what they were doing with the beatings: it was an impressive amount of pain for so little damage. He’d be less damaged than he was–except that he’d managed to piss off the chief guard.

 _Do you get an award for managing to aggravate them into breaking you? I wonder what you win…_ Sherlock giggled slightly and mentally upgraded to “definite concussion”. _A bit not good, there._

He let his mind wander randomly, skipping here and there, putting odd pieces together to see if they fit: usually they didn’t; sometimes they did. Sherlock didn’t like some of the patterns he saw.

Drip…

     Drip…

          Drip…

There was a pipe outside of his door and it dripped steady as a metronome. Sherlock fell asleep to Tchaikovsky in his mind… They left him alone the next day–nothing to do but think.

Mycroft had wanted information from Moriarty, and had eventually gotten it by trading stories… after they’d tried other methods… Sebastian wanted to hunt Mycroft for hurting Jim… This hurt… They wanted information…

Drip…

     Drip…

          Drip…

He slept; he woke up; they hurt him in different ways. The electricity was the worst.

Charlie had said he projected his hatred of the brother who beat him onto Mycroft… Mycroft wouldn’t beat anyone… but Mycroft didn’t do his own work, that’s what he has me for… or his people… “I owe you a fall”…

Drip…

     Drip…

          Drip…

They dragged him out and chained him down and poured water on a cloth over his face… The guard was playing a rainbow-colored game on Sherlock’s phone, and hid it when anyone looked…

*

Charlie had the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. He finally asked the crew at the office when the last time anyone had gotten a bug report from William was–and the answer was: too long.

_He had the phone turned off, probably to avoid an errant ring or beep from giving him away…_

_This was stupid._

_Sherlock was fine._

“Gabi?” he finally said, throwing a crumpled up piece of paper into the trash like it was a basketball shot.

“Yes?”

“Remember how I swore up, down, and sideways that I would never ask you guys to use your powers for evil?”

Steven looked up a bit worriedly, “Yeaaah?”

“What if it just MIGHT be evil?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Define that,” Tam said without even looking up.

“We can still turn on a Beta test phone by remote, right?”

Several people looked up. Mickie grinned wickedly, “William’s phone?”

“I’m… worried,” Charlie admitted grudgingly.

Maia laughed, “That’s not evil, that’s checking up on someone for good reason!”

Bobbi looked around, “Vote! All in favor of doing extremely illegal shit to William’s phone to check up on the jerk?” There was a unanimous raising of hands from the tech team.

Charlie nodded, “Break it–but make sure it doesn’t light up or make noise.”

They were laughing and competing with each other, none of them having any clue how bad this could be–except Charlie, standing very quietly with his hands on a desk, staring down, not moving.

He slowly became aware that the laughter had cut off, and the muttering was taking on a worried and confused tone.

“Uh… Serbia?”

“That’s bad,” Charlie said calmly, not moving. “Can you turn on the camera and the record function and throw control to my pad?” He paused. “Don’t look.”

“Why not?”

“Just… don’t.”

A moment later he knew they hadn’t listened. “What’s going on?!” “Is this a movie?” “What are they doing?” “OH, MY GOD!”

Jim Moriarty’s voice, calm and smooth as glass, said, “Route control to my computer… now.” He looked up and met each of their eyes, one after another. They backed off, stunned, and handed him the controls. He sat down and looked at the camera feed.

 _Sherlock was alive–in pain, but alive–now to keep him that way._ He activated the sound pick-ups and listened… nodded… _The battery was low: it needed to be charged, and the best way to do that was to get someone to charge it… There, closeted gay man, liked computer games, would have heard of ours…_ Jim activated the game and lit the screen up when the man went by…

He looked around carefully… and pocketed the phone.

Jim stood up and stretched, moving his head in a way that no one here had ever seen–and no one that he knew as Jim would ever forget. “We never did that. You never saw that. Everyone take a hundred or two out of petty cash and go home.”

Gabi whispered, “Charlie? What… What was…”

“All those rumors about what they do to gay men over there?” He pulled Boston back into his voice, even though no one could mistake him for anyone but Jim right now if they saw him. “Not rumors, not nearly. Go home, or go out. I need to call some three-letter-acronyms and get William out of there.”

Jim took his pad and went into his office and closed the door.

He stared at the phone as though it was a poisonous snake…

…and called Mycroft.

*

Mycroft’s personal priority phone rang. He had to let it go to voice mail–he was in a meeting at the highest levels, after all–but as soon as he could, he listened to the message.

A flat American voice spoke without hesitation or emotion: “William couldn’t be in worse trouble. Call me immediately.”

Mycroft stared at the number: _New York, game company… Sherlock had checked in as scheduled just five days ago but was out of touch now…_

He dialed and it was answered on the first ring. Charlie’s voice, emotionless: “He’s in Serbia, he’s been captured, he’s alive, but I don’t know for how much longer.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve sent the video to your email. I can send you the webpage for the live feed from his phone, although you won’t be able to do anything but look or listen.” Charlie could have been one of his best agents giving a report: utterly and completely calm.

Mycroft knew that brand of calm: he pictured the unblinking eyes of a shark or a snake. He looked at the video and a small sound escaped him. He pulled cold calculation and ice around himself and turned on the sound. Charlie said nothing–he just waited. Mycroft pulled up the GPS and the current video–which showed nothing, although the camera was on: the sounds indicated movement.

“Where is the phone now?”

“I encouraged one of the guards to pick it up for the game so he would recharge it.” His voice was as soft and cool as the rustle of silk–or the slide of scales.

“Thank you for calling me. I will work on getting him out.”

Charlie didn’t say anything else, he just hung up. Mycroft began working with nearly inhuman speed to extract Sherlock. It wasn’t until he was on his way to Serbia that his mind found the time to puzzle over Charlie, his obscured background, and his efficient response to what had to be disturbing images…

 _It didn’t matter_ , he finally decided. _I’d deal with the Devil himself to save my brother._


	17. Knowing Both Good and Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continues directly from the previous chapter: the perils of surrounding yourself with REALLY smart people.  
> This covers a lot of prompts, including angst, family, song fic and movie

“Da fuck was that?” Steven whispered. It was the first thing anyone had said since the door closed.

Gabi whispered back, “WHO was that? Because that wasn’t Charlie.”

Bobbi nodded, “It was like he was possessed or something.”

Tam had been absorbed in their computer–as usual–but they looked up and spoke thoughtfully in their calm voice, “No, that was him–Charlie is the new one.”

“What?”

“Remember how Charlie showed us the London paper? And said how William looked a bit like that Sherlock guy?”

Mickie nodded, “Yeah, and he looks a little like that other dude. He said it was weird.”

Tam brought up the wall screen and started bringing up images from London. Strange words like “Boffin” predominated, but Tam isolated the best photos.

Then Tam brought up William’s icon for the game: he’d chosen a long black coat when they let him test the clothing options out.

Everyone looked at the photos and back at the icon.

“But… That Sherlock guy is dead…”

“His cases were all mixed up in politics and spy shit.” Tam shrugged. “William travels all over the world and is all mixed up in drug smuggling rings and now being hurt in Serbia.”

“Because he’s gay,” Steven said slowly.

“No. What gay guy goes to Serbia? What ENGLISH gay guy goes to Serbia?”

Gabi asked, “How do you know he’s English?”

“His brother called: he was posh and English; Sherlock is posh and English.” Tam shrugged, “So? Sherlock is William.”

Bobbi frowned at the door, “Then what was THAT all about?”

Tam flipped all the images: there was a man in court; there was a children’s actor. “Those are the same man; good actor: he even looks different.”

“That’s the same guy?”

“Yeah,” Tam nodded. “So is this.” An image of a man wearing the English Crown Jewels appeared.

Bobbi slowly picked up their tablet and started drawing a blue shock of hair across each of the images.

“That… is really… weird.”

Tam shrugged. “Both are supposed to be dead. You saw it, though…”

Mickie frowned, “The eyes are a little different…”

Bobbi nodded, “The jawline is a little different…”

Steven looked around, “Plastic surgery? It wouldn’t take much. And the different hair…”

Bobbi looked up at the images, “Charlie HATES having his picture taken…”

Tam nodded. “Charlie is James Moriarty; William is Sherlock Holmes. I just don’t understand what is going on otherwise.”

“What are we going to do?”

Gabi looked around, “We wait, and we ask him.”

Maia hadn’t said anything since she saw the camera images of William being tortured with jumper cables, but she spoke up now. “I’m glad the sales and marketing crew wasn’t here. I don’t know about you guys, but I think we should order in sushi and vegetarian and wait.”

Mickie frowned, “Vegetarian?”

“You can eat sashimi, Mickie, but after seeing that video I don’t think I could handle meat.”

Everyone was pretty quiet after that.

~

Charlie spent a bit of time putting his plans together. He had “Charlie” firmly back in place when he walked out of the office. He wished he was surprised that the tech crew was still there.

“Sushi?” asked Tam, perfectly normally; everyone else was looking at him oddly, one way or another.

“Sure, stress makes me hungry.” Charlie sat on the edge of a desk and picked up a bit of sushi. “I thought I told you guys to go home?”

“Yeah, no,” Maia said quietly.

Steven looked around and shrugged, “So… uh…. William is a spy?”

“Kind of,” Charlie said, still looking at the sushi. He looked up and noticed that everyone flinched briefly–except Tam–and then looked relieved. “Problem?”

Bobbi waved a hand vaguely, “Your eyes looked creepy before.”

Charlie sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. _They were going to keep dancing around this… Right, ask Tam: no tact_. “Tam? What do you think is going on?”

“Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty aren’t dead. For some reason, he’s in Serbia being tortured and you’re running a game company and a financial business.” Tam frowned faintly, “The rest doesn’t make sense. You looked good in the Crown, though, like you were having fun. Did you have plastic surgery? Bobbi thinks so.”

There was an incoherent babble of “TAM!” and “Jesus” and “Right, so much for that.”

Charlie sighed. “I am probably going to have to vanish. If William’s brother stops to think…”

“Wait…” Maia said slowly. “Older brother who beat you half to death?”

“Yeah.”

“The guy who called?”

“Yeah.”

“Who… you just called, because he’s in some kind of TLA?”

“Yeah.”

Steven very nervously asked, “Are you… Is someone going to kill us for knowing too much?”

“It’s not exactly SAFE, no… I did advise you to forget about it. I’m not going to do anything.”

“The papers said Moriarty was a fake, and then later that he wasn’t, and some people said he was a crook…”

“Terrorist,” Tam said. “Some papers are calling him a terrorist.”

It was almost eerie how all the New Yorkers turned to look in the direction of Ground Zero.

“I was a consultant.” Charlie sighed, “And you don’t want to know any more, really.”

“So why are you and William pretending you just met?”

“I recognized him in New Orleans–he didn’t recognize me. He was drugged, and we both had masks on…” Charlie shrugged and put down the sushi. He’d lost his appetite. “He doesn’t know. If he knew, I would be dead or… well, the cells in London are cleaner than Serbia, but otherwise not much different.”

“You… aren’t kidding? You weren’t just beat up?”

“Oh, I was beat up. I was also electroshocked, waterboarded and…” It was Jim Moriarty’s smile, and then Jim’s voice. “Amazing what civilized governments get up to when no one is looking, isn’t it?”

Tam looked impressed, “I said you were a good actor. You look and sound really different.”

He pulled Charlie back on. “Thanks.”

“So… you know about William, but he thinks… you’re dead?” Mickie said. W _as she making a CHART?_ Charlie looked: it was just symbols and squiggles; he let it go.

“Basically.”

“And if Michael finds out?”

“I’ll either BE dead, or…” he sighed. “I’ll manage.”

“Is…” Bobbi looked at him sharply, “Oh, Holy shit! Your ex you were so hung up on… is the same guy…?”

Charlie put a hand over his face, “I honestly had no idea I talked about him so much.”

“Dude, like all the time,” Steven nodded.

Gabi shrugged, “Okay, back to the basics: how are we getting William out?”

Charlie looked up startled. “You… uh… aren’t calling the cops or the FBI or anything?”

“Those assholes?” Bobbi muttered.

“At the risk of sounding like a stereotype,” Maia held up a finger, “not all cops.” She glanced at Charlie, “Let’s just… pretend this is the witness protection program until I get enough Margaritas to forget about it.” She shrugged, “So? How are we rescuing dead spy from being tortured in Serbia–God, this sounds like James Bond shit.”

Charlie smiled like Charlie. “YOU have already done what you can… Now it’s up to me and Mycroft.”

“Who?” Tam asked instantly.

“Michael, William’s brother.”

“Who names their kid Mycroft?”

Charlie shrugged, “The same people who name their kid William Sherlock Scott Holmes?”

“William Scott…” Mickie snorted, “He used his own NAME?”

Charlie nodded, “The perils of being smarter than everyone–some days you have to rub their faces in it: that, and he really likes puzzles and patterns and things to be familiar.” He glanced at Tam, “He was never diagnosed, but I think he’s on the spectrum.”

“Oh, yes, he is,” Tam nodded. “I’ve talked about bug reports with him enough.” Tam tilted his head, “Charles Jameson… James’ son… James Moriarty?”

Charlie grinned. “And Richard Brook was Reichenbach–look it up. I have to go start working on getting Sher– William out of there. If anyone decides to turn me in, at least tell me first?”

“Turn who in?” Gabi said erasing a lot of history from the servers.

Tam frowned, “Charlie.”

Maia sighed, “We meant, we are going to pretend not to know and never mention it where anyone could hear it, just like never talking about Gwen’s old name.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Charlie blinked back something that most certainly WASN’T tears–because he didn’t cry–and said, “I’ll be working on this mess for a while.” Everyone nodded. “And if anyone calls for me, remember to let me handle it–you do not know a thing,” he glanced at Tam, “as far as anyone else is concerned.”

Everyone nodded.

As he was on his way out Bobbi stopped him. “Can I ask a question?” Charlie nodded. “If you… Did… Did you deliberately get that guy to stab himself with his own knife?”

“Yeah,” Charlie nodded. “Pulled the idiot’s trigger through his pants, too.” He smirked a bit and then went serious. “They pulled lethal force on two unarmed men, just for walking together.” Charlie looked thoughtful, “When this is over–if I’m still here–you all need more self-defense training: I drilled with an SAS bodyguard.”

Bobbi glanced over at the others. “He ran into my knife.”

Charlie grinned, “He ran into my knife TEN TIMES…”

Maia sighed, “Okay, yeah, they had it coming–so do the bastards who are hurting William… and if that happened to you, then so do they.”

Charlie shook his head, “That part of my life is dead and gone, and I’d like to keep it that way. Besides, William has someone else to go home to…” He shook his head and quoted, “’I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.’”

Charlie walked out and closed the door.


	18. Stay or Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> escaping Serbia  
> and phone calls  
> TW canon torture, real world LGBTQ persecuition

Mycroft–in his guise as a higher-ranking officer–was escorted in to observe the interrogation of the captured spy. His eyes met Sherlock’s. _Semi-coherent; fever; probable pneumonia; concussion; recognition–he was pretending to be far more ill than he was: good._ “{If you let him die by accident, we get nothing.}”

“{Our best man is back tomorrow, he was away. We will have answers soon.}”

 _Getting Sherlock out will be difficult. I need to find some way to draw off more of the men_. He sat down in the shadows and buried his emotions–they wouldn’t help his brother now. They began the process again, showing him what they would do, offers of relief if he would talk. Sherlock was being uncharacteristically quiet.

Suddenly, a younger guard came in and went to the commander: he spoke quietly and worriedly to him. _Lying; frightened–hopeful?_

The commander smiled pleasantly and lied to Mycroft, “{A delivery I have been waiting for has arrived, please wait.}”

“{Of course.}”

After the commander left, he was tensing to take down the younger guard when the man abruptly pulled a phone out of his pocket. “{Do you know this?}” The familiar landscape of that game was lit up on the screen–and there was a cartoon icon of a man with blue hair.

“{I am well acquainted with it…}” Mycroft said slowly.

The guard handed him a key: _It should fit Sherlock’s restraints._ “{There are explosives: they will do very little harm otherwise, but this area will be rubble},” he frowned worriedly, “{if I go with you. He said you would take me.}”

Mycroft looked at him intently: _gay, frightened, desperate to escape, unwilling to endanger his family… but if he was dead here..._ He nodded, “{Yes, you will be given a new identity. Help me with him.}”

They were half carrying Sherlock out when a voice from the phone spoke in Serbian, “{Approaching safe zone for explosions. Detonation in 5… 4… 3…}” They moved faster and when the explosions began simply used them for cover.

Key explosions took out the supports and the interrogation area collapsed. _The rest of the explosives seemed to be mostly smoke and fire, but inefficient and… intended for cover and distraction._ No one spoke any further until they were well clear.

“{This is Pedrag,}” Sherlock’s voice was rough. “{He’s had my phone for a while…}”

The guard looked shocked at him, “{You saw?}”

“{I’m observant…}”

Mycroft frowned, “{Why did you help?}”

“{Karlo… Karlo said you would be able to get me out.}” He kept looking down at his pocket for the phone.

“{Karlo…? Charlie...!}” Sherlock smiled, although his eyes kept closing, “{He saved me again?}”

“{Yes,}” Mycroft answered. “{Yes, he did. Sleep… You need rest.}” It was a foolish thing to say: he was already unconscious.

Mycroft promised Pedrag a new identity–easily done; the information on what they were doing and who was there was worth it–and once they were even further under way and unlikely to have to move on foot, he gave Sherlock an antibiotic, a sedative, and pain medication. He debriefed Pedrag and stayed with him until he could give him a sedative on the plane.

Then he took the time to review what Pedrag had said.

_Charles had been talking to him at all hours. He was there every time Pedrag had a break, needed someone, wanted someone–it was obvious Pedrag was more than a little in love with the man just from that–and he’d told him how to make the bombs, and supervised the placement by phone: deliberately done to cause the least loss of life and the most confusion. Charles had been doing that since he’d somehow gotten him to pick up the phone, just before he’d called me._

_Almost a week._

_In one week’s time he’d taken someone from stranger to willing accomplice and bomber–admittedly with minimal loss of life, although he could have been lying. Pedrag had TRUSTED Charles enough to believe that the bombs he was planting would do what he was told. Yes, Charles had an advantage that Pedrag was at constant risk as a gay man here, and had an incentive to try to get out…_

_But then again Charles had identified that from a phone camera while Sherlock was screaming in the background._

_He’d rescued Sherlock. He’d not only called me, as I asked, but he’d worked around the clock for all that time to manipulate someone into helping._

_Given a bit longer?_ Mycroft was fairly certain Charles could have gotten him out without help–assuming he was still in good enough shape to get out.

_From New York._

_By phone._

_Who in bloody hell was he?_

Once they were at the safe house in Germany, Mycroft took Sherlock’s phone out of the shielded bag and dialed.

*

 _They were out._ Charles took a shower, ate something rather mechanically, and fell over. He woke up because the phone rang.

“…better be good…” he managed to mumble into the phone.

“Did I wake you, Mister Jameson?” Mycroft’s voice. _Tired and rough, but not ice: everything was okay on his end._

“Yes. I fell over once I knew you were out,” he admitted. _Now to find out whether I can salvage any of this…_

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?” Charles reflected the question.

“William’s brother,” Mycroft said thoughtfully.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Charlie said in a Boston voice burring into New York with lack of sleep. “He even picked the same kind of coat for his icon that he has in all the news.”

“How did you find out?”

“I was out with a friend when I saw the first paper… I could have put it down to a weird coincidence, but… not after my crew started finding other pictures… Add to that the fact that he’s English? And he told me his ‘ex’ was Irish, actually Irish… and that Moriarty guy was Irish…” he staggered off to get coffee. “Besides, like one of my crew said, this is some kind of weird spy shit. They’d definitely think so if I told them half the questions YOU asked me.”

“It… is definitely very odd, Mister Jameson, especially given your ability to coordinate a bombing by phone.”

“You mean an escape. If the goal was a bombing, there would have been more damage.”

“True.” Mycroft sounded thoughtful.

“IS William alright? After the first videos, I was mostly seeing Pedrag. I don’t know how much more damage they did.”

“He will recover.”

“That doesn’t say much.”

“He would not have been found so quickly, nor rescued, if you had not done what you have.” Mycroft was sounding formal again.

“Pedrag WILL get a nice cover identity and a job somewhere, right?”

“Yes. His information should be quite valuable.”

Charlie poured himself a coffee and sipped at it. “So… what now?”

“I find myself at a loss, Mister Jameson,” Mycroft said slowly. “You… raise questions.”

 _I bet._ “Such as?”

“I would be tempted to believe that you were James Moriarty, but certain things don’t fit.”

“Bit too old to be reincarnated, although yeah, I have to admit, the photo in the paper was spooky. My friend asked me if I had any relatives on that side of the pond–the answer is maybe.” He sipped his coffee quietly. “Why would you think I was, and what doesn’t fit?”

“The level of… connection… you have with my brother has been demonstrated by very few other people in his life: one of them Moriarty. It’s possible he might not wish to see my brother killed by anyone but himself.”

 _True._ “That… sounds pretty stalker-ish. I don’t think I’ve been stalking him.”

“You haven’t. That is one of the many things that DON’T fit.”

“What else fits?”

“I already stated that you fit the general physical parameters. Now I find that you can suborn, recruit, and instruct a stranger into assisting in a bombing–or a rescue, if you prefer–without once showing your face or direct contact. It is very much what he would have done.”

 _Shit. Yes, it is. Damn, some signatures were harder to get rid of than I thought._ “So what doesn’t fit?”

“Moriarty was… unbalanced, unconcerned about civilian casualties, and would never have been able to resist gloating at me–among other things.”

 _I think I resent that–except the gloating part: it IS hard to resist gloating._ “I notice you don’t say anything about a body. The news was rather firm on there being one–of course, they were firm on Sherlock Holmes being dead too.” _Because I spent a lot of time and money on the identification and that body._

“There was, in fact, a body,” Mycroft admitted. “It was subjected to a number of identity verifications–as much as we could.”

“‘As much as we could?’”

“Moriarty had a remarkable ability to confuse and falsify records. The fact that the body matched our records is not proof.”

“So what do you think the answer is?” Charlie asked, honestly curious by this point–Charlie had never been intended to survive this level of scrutiny.

“I think… that you are very confusing, and I plan on worrying about it later–as long as nothing forces my attention back to you.”

 _In other words, as long as I don’t do anything that looks like Moriarty again, you’ll try to forget me–polite, I suppose_. “I run a game company, and work in finance… and hopefully William isn’t going to need me to spend a week on next to no sleep again, right?”

“One would hope; sadly, I cannot guarantee it.”

“Then you better hope I’m alive and well in case he needs to be rescued again.” _Do we understand each other?_

“Ah… Hmmm… A point.” Charlie heard him fiddling with his pocket watch again.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to scrape the grime off, get some real food, and let the tech crew know that he got out. Unfortunately, a few of them saw what we pulled up on the video.”

“That… must have been distressing.”

“Oh, it was… Too many of us have personal experience with being beaten… for being gay, or something.” Charlie bared his teeth at the phone and forced himself to be calm again. “Please have William contact people once he can–Tam especially.”

“Who’s Tam?”

“Ask William. I need to tell people he’s alright: he’s made a lot of friends in my company, even if he does drive some of them up the wall.”

A pause. “Thank you… Charles.”

“You’re welcome… Michael.” Charlie hung up and stared at the coffee pot for a while.

_I’m not doing anything that touches on his work, and he does care about his brother… it might hold…_

_And I have… friends…_

_I’ll stay._


	19. Coming Home

Charlie didn’t know what would happen when he went into work. He’d done a bit of work remotely but he hadn’t been back in the office since…

_Since they found out._

He came in a bit cautiously and almost had a heart attack when everyone shouted at him; a beat later, he realized it was everyone shouting because he was back and asking about William.

He made it to the main floor and got everyone’s attention, “Hey! One at a time? Uh… I don’t know how much anyone has been following, or how much anyone knows… but… William is safe.”

“Oh, thank God!” “YES!” “What HAPPENED?” “Why was he in SERBIA for–”

“You look like shit,” Tam commented and looked back down at their computer. “Shouldn’t you be happy?”

Charlie looked fondly at Tam and answered, “I’m happy, but I didn’t get much sleep in the last week, and I only fell over once I was sure they were out.”

“He,” Tam replied immediately.

“They plural, not they singular,” Charlie nodded. “William didn’t get out by himself.”

“Oh.” Tam looked thoughtful, “Will he be back online soon?”

“I hope so, but… they were hurt pretty bad–it may take a while.”

Gwen smiled over from her workstation, “Is he going to come to New York?”

Charlie sighed, “I… doubt it. Look, I know you didn’t believe me, but… William has someone he was close with back in London… I don’t think…” He put a politely bland look on his face. “I told you it was a one-time thing. We’re friends, that’s all. Maybe someday he’ll come visit in meat space, but don’t count on it.”

Gigi suddenly nodded, “Right, so Charlie has been away for a week and I need him to help me out on some sales stuff.” She almost dragged him to his office.

“Thanks,” he said, collapsing into his chair.

“You know, most of us know some of what happened to William and everyone is kind of freaked.”

“Thought Gabi erased it,” he muttered.

“She erased a lot, but the downloaded video from the initial Beta test check? It goes to the–”

“Quality Control and Support Report,” Charlie groaned.

Gigi patted his arm. “We erased it, but not before a bunch of us saw it and cornered the tech crew. You weren’t here and… I’m glad you got him out. I don’t understand what’s going on–I don’t want to, really–but I figured you should know.”

“Thanks.”

…

Everyone else left, by some unspoken agreement, at the end of the “business day”–which would have been suspicious all by itself. Eventually, it was just the tech crew again.

“Pho?” Steven suggested; Mickie countered with shawarma; someone suggested chicken wings; and it ended up with a really crazy buffet.

Gabi sighed, “So, now that it’s just us:William has someone?”

“Wait… He’s seriously going out with someone else?” Bobbi frowned. “He cheated on him with you?”

“No? I don’t know… I don’t know if they had that kind of relationship; I thought they were going that way, though.” Charlie shrugged uncomfortably. “He… At the time, he picked him over me; I honestly think it may have been a healthier decision–we weren’t… good for each other.” _And that hurt to admit._

Mickie looked around, “His brother and his friends? Beat you up? ‘Amazing what governments get up to?’ England tortures people…?”

Charlie sighed, “His brother and his employees interrogated me for a few weeks as a ‘guest’ of Her Majesty’s government. As I said, it was at least cleaner than Serbia…” After a pause, he said, “I’m not saying they didn’t have reason to be upset, or even arrest me, but…” He shrugged. “I don’t expect you to understand it, but what hurt the most was Sherlock cheating like that–letting his brother work me over instead of settling things between the two of us.” He paused. “And… I have some rather first-hand accounts of a lot of governments doing things they shouldn’t–I was a consultant: I consulted for some governments, too.”

“And your ex–William–broke it off after you were tortured?!”

“I may have been a bit upset, broken into the Crown Jewels, and trashed his reputation in court and the press… Let’s say it was a mutual break up,” Charlie muttered into his chicken wings.

There was a round of sort of awkward and nervous laughter. Maia shook her head, “This sounds insane.”

“It is, kind of.” Charlie sighed. “It’s like a bad movie plot: he doesn’t know I’m alive; his brother suspects I’m me, but can’t prove it; and the person whose plots he thinks he’s hunting down is texting him from New York.”

“He’s hunting down what?”

“I expect he’s MOSTLY hunting down my old business contacts, but his brother is using him to hunt down MI6’s issues, too: he was in New Orleans on MI6 business.”

“So what actually happened in New Orleans?” Mickie asked. “At various points you’ve said he was drugged…”

“He was running from some killers,” Charlie said. “Yes, seriously. I ended up hiding him in my hotel room under cover of being just a lonely businessman. I never took my mask off, my accent is different, and they’d drugged him before he got away–although I hadn’t known that last bit.”

“So you saved his life, what, three times now?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, “Third time’s the charm?”

Very quietly Bobbi said, “All that and you don’t think he’ll come here?”

“No. I don’t think he will.” He shrugged, “I just hope he’ll keep talking to everyone: I’d miss him if he stopped.”

They were all looking at each other and Maia finally said, “So you just… did all that, and risked his crazy brother catching you, and maybe us calling the–who would you call, the CIA?”

“In my case? Or to be specific, Moriarty’s case?” He looked thoughtful. “Probably. The stuff people know about is outside the States, so yes, CIA–but please don’t.”

Maia waved a hand, “Sorry, just thinking about jurisdiction–half of us write fan-fiction you know.”

“So what’s your question?”

“You took all those risks and you don’t even expect he’ll show up–because he’s got people in London?”

“Basically,” Charlie sighed. _Watson lived with the man, after all_. “That, and he’s a self-centered prick, but he has actually improved the last couple years. I know I’ve changed–it shouldn’t surprise me he has.”

“You must really love him.”

Charlie winced. “Unfortunately, I think I do.”

*

Sherlock recognized that he was in a hospital–the sounds and the smells were the same the world over–and it felt like coming up through thick syrup to wake up. He rolled his head to the side and saw a familiar profile–he smiled tiredly despite himself and went back to sleep.

The next time he woke up it took less effort.

“Myc?”

“Here.” Mycroft slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. “It’s been four days since we got you out.”

“How?” Sherlock asked him. “I know the game had something to do with it.”

“They managed to turn your phone on–the cameras and microphone.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Beta testing. I agreed to the full package.”

“Ah,” Mycroft nodded. “The first time they turned it on, you were being electrocuted: several of them saw that. I have tried to speak to the other individuals but… very few of them will speak to me.” He paused uncharacteristically. “…Charles… called me. He also apparently identified and recruited Pedrag, and… Pedrag set the bombs under his direction.”

Sherlock listened to the subtext and the hesitations. “You think he’s Jim,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Yes, yes I do–even though it doesn’t make any sense at all.” Mycroft sighed. “Too much says that he is not Moriarty, but no other explanation makes as much sense.”

“Could he have worked for him?” Sherlock asked. _Some of the contacts had been good people who got sucked in to Moriarty’s activities, after all._

“Certainly.”

“That… might be it.”

“I have agreed to ignore him unless he causes a problem–he rather correctly, if vaguely, noted that you tend to get into trouble and that if he was not available to assist…” _He all but blackmailed me with your safety into leaving him alone, Sherlock–who does that sound like?_

Mycroft stared off at the same wall Sherlock was staring at and asked him curiously, “What do you think?”

“I think I wanted him to be Jim. I lost Jim before I knew how much I wanted Jim to care… and Charlie cares,” Sherlock answered. “I don’t think he is Jim, but I want him to be.” Sherlock sighed and leaned back into the pillow. “But I don’t want him to be, because it would mean he didn’t care and it was all a plot.”

Mycroft awkwardly cleared his throat, “From his time in interrogation I know he was obsessed with you; caring may not be the word for it, but perhaps in his mind it was.”

After a long pause Sherlock asked, “How much have I refused to see?”

“Pardon?”

“How much of what happened to me did you do to Jim–while I was just thinking he was a bit uncomfortable?”

Mycroft’s non-answer and faint twitch of his fingers answered him fairly clearly.

“More than a bit not good then.” Sherlock sighed.

“He was a threat.”

Sherlock didn’t answer that, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “Promise me, Myc.”

“That would depend on the promise.”

“Never let me be ignorant of what I’m participating in again. Jim probably assumed I knew… what you did. I should have known.” _Because whatever we had before that, after that all we had was death._

“Ah. I can try.”

“And leave Charlie alone.”

“Even if he’s Moriarty?”

“He isn’t… How could he be? Moriarty wanted me dead, whether for earlier reasons, or my rejecting him, or being hurt… Everyone of his that was still HIS had the attitude that my death belonged to Jim: it wasn’t their right.”

“I said something like that to Charles.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘That sounds pretty stalker-ish. I don’t think I’ve been stalking him’.” Mycroft attempted a mimic of Charles’ voice.

Sherlock smiled, “No, he hasn’t been. We talk, sometimes, mostly by text. He has a life, he has friends… Did you know Gwen is probably getting engaged? They’ll have a big party and Tam will stay back at the office and hold down the fort, as they say, while everyone else gets blasted… except the ones who don’t drink…”

“Charles said to tell you to contact everyone, especially Tam.” He cleared his throat. “Who is Tam?”

“They are a brilliant game tech, and an absolute marvel at problem solving.”

“They?” Mycroft arched his eyebrow.

“They. They are non-binary, and don’t use gendered pronouns–took me a bit to get used to–and Autistic Spectrum.” Sherlock paused. “So am I–Autistic Spectrum, not non-binary: I’m male.”

Mycroft blinked twice, settling the diagnoses in his head. It fit; in fact, he felt foolish for not having seen it before. “Do you want to get that put in your file?”

“If you like; I don’t think it matters much.” Sherlock nodded slowly. “Tam told me, just like Charles told me: I wasn’t broken for not wanting sex the way other people do.”

Mycroft turned and looked at Sherlock, “Explain?”

“I never did find most people attractive–that way–sex was just... The chemical hit was lovely, and people will do absurd things for it. I shouldn’t complain: I used it enough.” He looked calmly back at Mycroft, “Apparently, for me to want to have sex with a specific person is… rare. I’d thought there was something wrong with me.”

“What did Charles say?”

“He told me to look up Asexuality. I’m somewhere between Asexual and Demisexual, I think–but again, it doesn’t matter: I’m not broken, I’m just different.”

“Given your tendency to find medium height brunettes–”

“I was attracted to Jim. I tried to… replicate that? I’m not actually attracted to that look any more than I’m attracted to short blonds–I was trying to replace THEM.” Sherlock sighed, “I am attracted to Charlie and that’s mostly from TALKING to him, not his appearance.”

“You’re attracted to Charles… separately from Moriarty?” Mycroft asked hesitantly.

“I think so? Sometimes they blur together…” Sherlock felt exhaustion taking him down again. “How long until I can go home?”

“Not long, perhaps two weeks, although the doctors say you will be weak for a while from pneumonia–they caught it early, though.”

…

Sherlock was walking off the plane in London on his own two feet, thank you very much–even though there was a wheelchair a discreet distance away–two days, not two weeks, later. He wasn’t actually fit to be released, but he was driving the medical staff to distraction, and Mycroft decided he could do that at home just as well.


	20. Endings and Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Close, the Death card, represents the final closing of one part of your life, and the (potential) beginning of another.

Sherlock had texted everyone from the company as soon as he was settled in Mycroft’s house.  He started getting texts back almost instantly.  Some he could simply acknowledge with a comment about still being ill, others required more response, but he was glad to talk to them again. It pained him to admit he had already made his farewells in his mind.

At least you’re safe in London with your brother!–Alice

His brother and he got along a lot better from a slight distance. No matter how grateful he was for Mycroft pulling him out personally, and staying with him as much as he could, they grated on each other. As it was Mycroft had kept the downstairs room that he’d used before when drying out as a small medical bedroom “in case it was needed again”, so it had been aired out and Mycroft had a home nurse–probably MI6. It was comfortable, and very, very, Mycroft and Sherlock wanted out.

You looked like you were going to die, are you?– Tam

I take it you saw the camera?–W

The tech crew was all there when we hacked your phone, plus Charlie.  It looked bad.–Tam

How bad?–W

Tam sent him the video… 

He deleted it almost immediately.  He remembered that day– they’d almost killed him and the commander had left him in his cell the next day? Two? to recover. So Charlie had called Mycroft just after that?  Sherlock ended up shaking badly because the room was… cold… or something.  The nurse gave him a sedative and Sherlock let himself drift off knowing he would be awake in just a few hours– the nurse didn’t know his tolerances.

When he woke up he texted Charlie.

Thank you again.–W

He got a reply very quickly– _oh, yes it was earlier there, and Charlie kept odd hours anyway_.  How are you doing?–C

I don’t know.–W

?–C

Tam sent me the video from when you activated my camera;I didn’t react well.–W

Tam shouldn’t have done that but they don’t know that.–C

I still have nightmares about stuff that happened ages ago, but it does get better over time.–C

True, it hasn’t been that long.–W

Avoid Serbia, it’ll help. Place looked filthy: totally diss them on Yelp.–C

Sherlock stared at the message for a moment and then started to snicker.

I’ll write a scathing review.–W

Right. Let’s see them get a Michelin rating after this!–C

Not even a mint on the pillow and the toilet rolls were backwards.–W

No!–C

After a pause Sherlock sent back: Thanks, I needed that.–W

Sure. I’m glad to hear from you. We were all pretty worried.–C

Also your brother is a dick.–C

Sherlock laughed without being able to help himself. what did he do?–W

Wouldn’t give any kind of a report as to how you were other than “he will recover” which could mean anything.–C

Oh, well I had pneumonia but they caught it very early and I feel fine just tired now. Other than that… well, I have some new scars.–W

Don’t tell Mickie, she’ll start planning tattoos.–C

William stayed up for a bit longer texting Charlie before he had to go back to sleep, but he did sleep this time.  It was going to be odd going back to being Sherlock, and… he wondered how he was going to introduce the crew to John.  _Would John be… jealous? No… No John would be happy he had more friends_.

The next day he told Mycroft that he could recuperate far better at Baker Street. _Home._

“No, you most certainly cannot! Seventeen steps up and no one to look after you?”

“John can look after me, he IS a doctor.” Sherlock said and then saw the look on Mycroft’s face. “If anything happened to John and you didn’t tell me…”

“John is fine, however he doesn’t live at Baker Street– hasn’t for some time– and has been seeing someone rather seriously. Since he has been ring shopping I rather expect him to propose soon.”

Sherlock felt a sensation that could only be described as having the ground sliding slowly but inexorably out from under him. “What?”

Mycroft frowned worriedly at him but retrieved some files and handed them over.  There were surveillance files on all of his friends, the top one was John Watson’s. He opened it and started going through it slowly. 

Mycroft had to leave for work.

Sherlock went through all of the files and tried to wrap his mind around how much had changed while he was gone. He looked at the surveillance photos of John again.  He didn’t quite know what to make of it.  John… John was dating but… _without me to drive them off; this one had lasted._ Sherlock read the reports again. Indeed, he wasn’t even living at the flat…

_But he was supposed to be there._

He put the files aside and played the game on his phone idly, almost not paying attention to it; because of that he apparently found several bugs that simply didn’t occur with his usual playing skills– he sent a bug report.

_John was always at the flat, unless he was at Tescos or something._

He got a text from Gigi, which turned out to be a hesitant request for reassurance that he was alright, disguised as questions about crossword puzzle clues in French. It cheered him up a bit.

_No, that was only in his Mind Palace.  Jim had said that… I chose to put him there… I assumed he would be there…_

His phone chimed with a text.  It was from Gwen and undoubtedly informing him of her engagement party.

I know you’re in London, but just telling you the engagement party is tomorrow in New York and I know you can’t come but you’re invited anyway.– Gwen

Sherlock blinked– _inaccurate, not just informing: inviting_ – and found a small smile on his face. 

I am sorry I can’t come. Will you be live streaming it?–W

No… too many guests who can’t be “out” to their bosses or family.–Gwen

I’ll do my best to check in, at least, and congratulations.–W

He knew GWEN was getting engaged; he just never imagined JOHN getting engaged.

Sherlock looked at the files again…

When Mycroft came home after work he asked him, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You said you didn’t want to know anything except that they were alive and well.”

“It hadn’t occurred to me to even think…”

Mycroft sighed, “It… was a relief when they met.  He wasn’t doing well after your death– emotionally.” Mycroft twitched.

Of course Mycroft wouldn’t know what to do with THAT.

“I need to think.” Sherlock said and sank into his Mind Palace. He was at Baker Street, and John wasn’t home. There was an empty tea cup, and two tarot cards on the table: Sherlock walked over and considered– The Lovers, and the Three of Swords.

_Choices, and heartbreak._

Sherlock saw it then, suddenly: When he’d died, just like when Jim had died, John had lost his choice between the brunet and the blond…. And John had always preferred women…

Sherlock had chosen John over Jim, and then left to safeguard him, and John hadn’t had a choice, but he’d had to move on. Sherlock didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or find a needle and make it all go away for a while.  _They’d both chosen blond…_

He saw the options then spinning out in front of him– a wedding, trying to move on with the Work, falling back into drugs– except…

He’d promised Charlie, and so many of Charlie’s friends–my friends now– to stay clean, to tell them if he relapsed…

There had to be another option. Sherlock sat back and considered.

He held up the Tarot card from the wall: the Lovers.

He put down another card: The Close.

Jim was gone, and there would never be anyone like him ever again. John… John could be his friend, but John was loyal above all else, and he had chosen his blonde– and Sherlock had broken his heart.

_And perhaps my choice wasn’t quite so certain as I’d thought, given how many medium height brunettes I chased after._

All the old business was done and closed, and all that was left was to either make his final exit…or dare to start something new. He looked at the skull on his mantle, at the case files, at all the murders and deaths… Remembered John saying how death affected the people left behind…

Most people didn’t know he was even alive; they’d already mourned and moved on… 

Mycroft would be destroyed if he died now– he’d actually left his office, left London, when he’d heard Sherlock needed him… 

He’d heard because Charlie had worried and reached out to find him…

Charlie had saved his life–again– and would never forgive him for throwing that away.

Sherlock doubted that Charlie would ever want anything more than friendship, but he was a friend.  He looked around at the flat that he’d wanted so much to return to and suddenly felt stifled by the weight of the past–

Not time to die: time to let go.

And maybe time to begin something new.

 


	21. Second Choices and Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter closes this arc (although there will be two epilogue stories at least.)

Sherlock waited until his brother left for work, then left the house–he did, at least, leave him a note. Twelve hours later Sherlock was sitting in a plane, the end credits rolling on the in-flight movie, half an hour from landing. Jim in his Mind Palace had smiled over his tea and drummed his fingers on his leg with excess energy, but refused to say anything–at least he seemed happy.

He stood in an airport, picking up his luggage and texting the man who had saved his life three times:

I just finished watching a movie, it was boring. What are you doing tonight?–W

Some of the crew and I will be going to the club, Gwen’s engagement party.–C

Right! Sounds like fun, send me pictures?–W

The cab ride in from the airport was tedious, but he had the pictures before they got to the city–he gave the cabbie the address.

It was a very likely kind of place for the company to go, full of young people in various states of dress and undress and multi-color hair, and Sherlock was being flirted with before he managed to get inside. He’d obviously chosen his clothing correctly– John always did claim the purple shirt attracted attention. There was a time–not very long ago, all things considered–that he would have let someone pick him up and try to forget; he almost stumbled as he remembered that one of those times had been Jim…

And he hadn’t even known… _Fingers ghosted on his hips and the smell of mint…_

Sherlock took his entry token, got a drink from the bar, and started scanning for his friends. Funny that he could be such friends with people he had never seen in person.

The color-coded hair didn’t stand out as much in this place as he’d hoped, but the small mountain of Tory was literally head and shoulders above most of the people, and once Sherlock spotted him he could identify the rest of them easily enough. Sherlock stood in the shadows just off the dance floor and smiled. _Pink, purple, green, bright orange–oh yes, Alice had lost a bet just before I’d been captured, so she had to dye her hair orange to complete the rainbow… and there was Charlie: even with his back turned, he couldn’t be anyone else._

He was out under the lights of the floor dancing with everyone and no one, and he moved so well. Sherlock began to move out onto the dance floor to surprise him–and then he turned.

 _Jim…_ Sherlock started to shake and _It couldn’t be and he looked so much like him–but Jim never smiled like that, never was so unguarded, never…_ Sherlock spun his back to the dance floor. _It wasn’t Jim: this was Charlie and I… if I couldn’t see him without seeing Jim, it was better to just walk away now._ Sherlock drained his glass without thinking.

~

Charlie was losing himself in the beat and the sound–one of the few ways he’d ever found to quiet his restless mind–when he spotted a tall, slim man with dark curly hair at the edge of the dance floor. He’d just finished his drink before coming out to dance, and Jim felt the pull of the old nostalgia. If he stayed behind him– _and please God, let him not speak_ –he could pretend…

Jim swung up behind him and put his hands onto the man’s hips. “Care to dance?”

He moved under Charlie’s hands, and he was just the right height, and long slender fingers drifted over his hands– _he must play an instrument: the callouses on his fingers felt like coming home…_

And he turned and slid his hands up Charlie’s arms and Charlie closed his eyes; the illusion was so fragile he never wanted it to end… and his make-believe Sherlock tilted his head back and kissed him.

It was desperate, and lonely, and _Oh God, I can die now because I don’t want to open my eyes_ …

And Sherlock’s voice, just a bit too rough, said, “I missed you.”

~

Sherlock was about to walk away when hands slid over his hips like a memory. He heard Charlie ask him to dance and the hands were so familiar: he reached down and ran his hands over Charlie’s hands–because they were Charlie’s hands–and…

_They were the hands from the club in London, settled in the same place, the same pressure on each finger…_

_Jim’s hands…_

_New York… Apples… IOU…_

_A Liberation tattoo covering the scars… from his ex’s brother and friends beating him..._

_He ran away, changed his name, started over…_

_“Why don’t you ever have a picture of your face?”_

_I’d sent a text signed SH and he never questioned…_

_Jim in his Mind Palace smiling at a Mardi Gras mask, “Oh, Charlie is the most ‘me’ of all…”_

Sherlock turned and ran his hands up Charlie’s– _Jim’s_ –arms… Charlie had closed his eyes, as if… as if he didn’t want to see that it wasn’t Sherlock, just another substitute in a club. _Him too? How many times had he tried to convince himself…_

Sherlock looked down and Charlie’s expression flickered with pain for a moment, trying to hold on to the illusion, and it was Jim… and he leaned down and kissed him…

_Apples, and mint, and a smell of clean soap…_

“I missed you.”

Jim’s eyes flew open in shock and Sherlock saw the flash of recognition, and longing, and fear. He tried to pull away and Sherlock pulled him closer and leaned his head down to his ear.

“You said you eventually forgave your ex, and asked if I ever forgave mine.”

“Did you?” And it was Jim’s faint Irish lilt.

“That’s three times you saved my life–I think I can forgive you for the one time you tried to end it; I’m not sure if I’ve forgiven you for leaving me, though.”

“You made your choice: I can’t even say it was a bad one.” And Jim was leaning his head into his shoulder.

“I couldn’t go with you… then.”

“Then?”

“I don’t think anyone would be too surprised if I left London for a while, and I doubt Mycroft would be utterly shocked if I spent time with a man who saved my life.”

Jim looked up at him with a peculiar mixture of surprise– _and was that hope?_ “Oh… his people aren’t…? I thought you must have brought them.”

Sherlock felt his wounds throb as he realized: _He thought I came to betray him?_ “Can– Can we sit down? I’m still not fully recovered.”

Eyes suddenly as sharp as his brother’s flashed over him before hiding again. “Of course. The noise and crowd must be driving you mad in any case–Tam hates it here–my apartment isn’t far.”

~

“It’s… very Charlie,” Sherlock said after looking around the apartment.

“Yes, yes it is… Of course, so am I.”

Sherlock found himself looking in amusement at a Mardi Gras mask, framed in a shadow box on the wall. “Had you meant to find me there?”

“No, I was rather shocked…”

“Why save me?”

“Then? Or later?”

“Then.”

“Power, amusement, because I could…” Charlie tilted his head just so, and it was Jim again. “…and because Mycroft had sent you off to do his dirty work.”

“Your ex who let his brother and friends beat you half to death, and broke up with you.” Sherlock sighed.

Charlie smiled faintly, but it reached his eyes in a way it never had before, “Your crazy ex who committed suicide in front of you.”

“I didn’t understand… what Mycroft did. I should have, but I didn’t,” Sherlock admitted.

“I suppose I didn’t know what it was to have friends you would risk everything for, until I had some.”

They both stood there looking a bit rueful until Charlie shrugged, “Apparently I talk about you a lot.”

“Sebastian said so.”

“Did he?” Jim made a vaguely annoyed noise, “Louis told me I did.”

“Who’s Louis?”

“He was a bit of cover, and part of my back story, but he eventually became a friend–sort of reminds me of Greg, a bit.”

“’I don’t understand?’” Sherlock quoted with a smile.

“Got it in one.”

“Later?” Sherlock asked, returning to the original question of why, knowing Jim would understand.

“I missed you…” He stood for a moment looking blankly into a refrigerator, but then came back with two bottles. “And it would have been a waste… and who else ever understood me?”

Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to see that it was some sort of gourmet soda.

“Pomegranate,” Charlie said, and then smiled. “I’ve taken a bit of a fancy to themes of death and resurrection.”

“Oddly, so have I.” Sherlock couldn’t stop looking him over: he was so much the same but so very different.

“What?”

“You’ve changed.”

“Years of being Charlie… having friends: that was peculiar,” he shrugged. “So have you.”

“Years of being alone, being hurt… finding friends on the other end of a phone game: peculiar.”

“What happened? You were going home…”

“Everyone had moved on.” Sherlock stared at nothing for a while. “They were always the same in my mind, I hadn’t thought it would be different in reality. You did try to warn me.”

“I did?”

“Ah, no… Moriarty did… the one who…”

“Oh.” Jim smirked at him and his heart stuttered, “You can’t trust him: he lies a lot.”

Sherlock ducked his head and smiled, “Not as much as you’d think: a lot of times he just tells you the truth in ways you don’t understand, like pointing out you could have had me killed by a sniper anytime you wanted to.”

“True, but where would be the fun in that?”

“Memento Vivare, Memento Mori… Did you ever get that done?”

Charlie shook his head, “Got a bit busy: committed my first murder in a couple of years, had to tell a pirate to watch his back, and then I rescued an ex-boyfriend.”

Sherlock blinked a lot and then swore vehemently and stared down at his phone, “YOU told Sebastian I was there!”

It was Charlie’s smile and Jim’s laugh, “Of course! I didn’t want him to actually HURT you: I was rather firm… I suppose it’s safe enough to go see him again now: he doesn’t know my cover.”

“He doesn’t?”

“We only talk by text; it was too risky to stay together, Mycroft–”

Sherlock looked down, “You said the tattoos cover scars?”

“They were very professional; I only have a few physical scars–the other ones… well, you can’t tattoo over.”

“I’ll never be able to go without a shirt again.” Sherlock said quietly, “They weren’t as professional.”

Without warning Sherlock was pulled out of his seat, the bottle forgotten on the table. “Strip.”

“What?”

“Do you think I care if you have a few scars? Strip.”

Sherlock’s hands shook, but he stripped off everything and stood in front of Jim–because even with the differences, even with the hair, he was standing with his arms folded looking annoyed and it was Jim and only Jim.

“Turn.”

Sherlock turned slowly, and then looked back at him expecting some kind of reaction–seeing only a tilted head and a distant look. Eventually he said, “You could have some more work done on scar reduction if you like, or some of those will make one HELL of a three dimensional tattoo.” Jim walked up and ran a hand over the scar on his thigh, “Is that from the first time I rescued you by phone?”

Sherlock shivered at his touch. “Yes, doesn’t it bother you?”

“Oh yes, it bothers me a lot,” Jim nodded, “and if Mycroft hasn’t gotten rid of them I still have a few contacts who can, but what bothers me is that someone did that, not that you have a few scars.”

Jim shrugged and stripped off his own clothes, “You wanted to look? Look.”

Sherlock saw the tattoos–and they were even more remarkable in person and moving with him–and there were old scars here and there that weren’t covered, among them a small scar from a knife that must have just missed his heart.

“Memento Vivare, Memento Mori,” Jim said, touching the scar. “I almost died when I was fifteen.” He touched the tattoo on his side, “The beatings in Mycroft’s cells left a few scars along my ribs there, and I already had a scar from childhood…” He twisted his hand to touch a constellation of scars behind his back as he turned, “I trusted the wrong lieutenant…” He turned and ran his other hand down the feather twisting along his leg, “The electrodes and the water left a scar here, and further down is the scar from a snake bite…” Jim looked up at him and shrugged, “We’re neither of us blank canvases.”

Sherlock meant to say something, and then Jim was adjusting the cuffs on a nonexistent suit–and for a moment Sherlock almost saw it. “So… If you aren’t here to finish off your work for big brother… why are you here?”

“Because that part of my life is over, and I had all these friends–some of whom I’d never met in person–and someone who had saved my life… and I wanted to see if there was a new life somewhere around here.” He could see hope in Jim’s eyes and he wondered how he missed it before, or if it had been there before.

“Decided to stay away from blonds and redheads?” Jim tilted his head up. _God, Sherlock looked so solemn; he just wanted to see some of that old spark again._

“You were absolutely right, they’re nothing but trouble… of course, so are brunets.” Sherlock’s smile flickered briefly into view.

Jim grinned at him and walked up until they were skin to skin, “Only the better ones.”


	22. The world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While this is the end of this story arc, there are at least two stories in this universe/continuum remaining to be told  
> Fills prompt 26   
> .. and when two lovers woo, they still say "I love you" on that you may rely....

They just slept that night. Recovering from pneumonia does tend to exhaust you, and long plane flights, and everything… they could wait.

What didn’t wait was Jim–Charlie–dragging him into work the next day.

“Sorry for running out on your party, Gwen!” Charlie practically BOUNCED in.

“Oooooh, was he fun?” Steven asked him with an exaggerated and totally false leer.

“Unexpected,” Charlie grinned. “So… for those of you wondering how William is doing…” and he waved William in.

Sherlock always did love the dramatic, and he even had his coat back, so he promptly stalked in with his coat swirling behind him. The shit eating grin spoiled it a bit, but it was worth seeing. Every single person in the office who liked men that way promptly had their jaw drop–a few that just liked them for art did too.

“Oh, my, god…” murmured Alice; Steven just made a strangled squeak; and Tory missed sitting on the edge of the desk and actually fell–most of the others just stared at him, and he was certain he heard a few shutter click sounds.

“So… remember how I said William wouldn’t likely be coming to New York?” Charlie grinned, “Listen carefully, because I don’t say it often: I was wrong.”

Then Sherlock opened his mouth and said, “I must apologize for not staying at your party long enough to congratulate you on your engagement, Gwen, but Charlie and I had things to discuss,” and then Charlie started laughing, because Gigi had a THING for voices and she almost swooned at his Baritone, even though he wasn’t fully recovered.

“You utter bastard,” Gigi breathed. “Why didn’t you tell me, Charlie?”

“Because I have a thing for Baritones myself?” Charlie grinned. “At least this one. William? Gigi. Gigi, William. Gigi has a thing for voices and will undoubtedly try to kidnap you to record one of the game prompts, but you need to call your brother first.”

“Sadly true,” Sherlock admitted. Charlie pointed him into the office and promptly threw himself onto Mickie’s desk lying across her papers looking up.

Mickie just grinned, “Pay up.”

He pulled a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to her. “With pleasure. We’re leaving early and getting matching tattoos.” Mickie just grinned some more.

“That… was William? He’s GORGEOUS!” Charlie thought that was Gabi, but he wasn’t sure because a lot of people were saying about the same thing.

“I believe I said that,” Charlie smirked, looking up at the ceiling.

Tam was frowning at the door and looking back at Charlie. “So… who knows what?”

“Ah, right.” He hopped up and looked around. “Okay, who here figured out William’s old name?”

Every hand went up.

“So… mine?”

The tech crew all raised hands, of course; much to his shock the only person who DIDN’T was Gwen–and she sort of waffled her hand around.

Charlie shook his head in amusement. “In my case? It’s a dead name. I’m not mad if you use it, it’s just not me anymore. You’ll have to ask William what he prefers, though.” He looked at Tam. “But yeah, he got one look at me at the party and… that was it.”

“Good,” Tam nodded and went back to work.

~

The phone rang from a familiar number in New York. Sherlock was missing, and the tracker he had planted on him had apparently been handed off to an accomplice so that Mycroft only thought he was running about London until it was too late. Mycroft had no doubt that he’d run off to New York, in which case… he honestly didn’t know, and it made his stomach roil.

“Charles,” Mycroft said tensely.

“An understandable assumption, brother of mine, since I happen to be using his phone.” Sherlock’s voice was amused and he used the phrases for a voluntary call. Mycroft relaxed just slightly.

“Why?” Mycroft sighed into the phone. _Why run off, why go to him, and… just why_.

“I’m only calling this soon because otherwise you MIGHT cause some form of trouble that I would be upset about–very upset.”

“Isn’t that normally my speech, brother dear?” _Verify you are safe._

“I’m staying at Charlie’s house, although I will be returning to London in under a month. I think I’m entitled to a vacation, Mycroft.” _Safe as houses._

“And your friends here?”

“I’ve started writing some letters… I suspect the shock will be… greater than I had been thinking.” Sherlock sounded thoughtful, and a bit sad, but not upset. “Everything was always the same in my mind; I suppose it was a shock to find out how much had changed in reality.”

“Ah, yes… it can be.” Mycroft considered carefully, “So, your attraction to Charlie remains intact? Because he… cares?” _Because Moriarty didn’t care, you said, and if he was Moriarty this was just a plot... or was it?_

 _CURSE this entire situation. He could NOT be Moriarty, but he MUST be Moriarty_ and the two options were stalemated in his mind.

“We’re getting matching tattoos, actually.”

“You’re WHAT?!” Mycroft was utterly scandalized. _Oh dear God, he’d found a new way to shock me_ … With a wince, Mycroft had to admit he preferred it to drugs, but… the image of his brother covered in hooligan-like tattoos made him ill.

“In any event, I’ll send you the letters to pass on; I trust you can enlist the appropriate people to be supportive?”

“I shall endeavor to do so. PLEASE keep in touch, and… I suppose there is no point in trying to talk you out of a tattoo?”

“None at all.”

Sherlock hung up, and Mycroft started researching tattoo removal.

~

Maia mostly smirked as the two of them left for lunch–and matching tattoos. _William was certainly an aesthetic man, with such an expressive face._ “I’m writing those cheekbones into my next fan-fic somewhere.”

Bobbi nodded, “Seriously, the contouring industry must weep.”

Tam popped the spread sheet up on everyone’s iPad and they started settling the betting pools.

~

After lunch, Sherlock found himself in a very clean shop, being attended by an artist who reminded him uncannily of Bill Wiggins. He sat through the lecture on proper care of tattoos, and healing, and watched with curiosity as the machine worked. Compared to anything he’d felt recently, the faint buzz and prickle was soothing… He realized when Jim patted his shoulder that he’d fallen asleep.

“You alright?”

“That felt lovely. I can still feel a bit of the endorphin hit… No wonder people say it’s addictive.”

The artist, whose name was not Bill, smiled and said, “Damn few people ever have just one tat.”

 _Obviously a point to remember. Come to that, the few times I’d seen someone with just one tattoo it had either been recent, or one of those drunken fling on vacation things….. Hmmm…_ He contemplated tattoos and statistical studies and homicides he had seen as Jim got his tattoo done.

Jim steered him out and back to his apartment. He started talking in the middle of his conjectures and deductions the way he always did, and stopped when Jim picked it up seamlessly.

“You know, that’s… comforting.”

Charlie blinked at him in confusion as he dished take-out into his plates and bowls. “What is?”

“You don’t ask me what on earth I was talking about, because you can pick it up and follow it. It’s only ever been Mycroft who could do that before.”

Jim smirked at him and handed him a glass of wine. “You’re not ordinary, but neither am I; you’d hardly be worth dancing with if we couldn’t follow each other’s steps.”

Sherlock started to peel back the bandage on his chest.

“No picking at it.”

“I wasn’t picking.”

“No peeking, either. Do what the man said and leave it be.”

“I’m not good at that,” Sherlock said drily.

“No,” Charlie smiled, “you never were.”

“Someday… will you tell me how this all started?”

“I’m just the dark side to your story, Sherlock, that’s all. There but for the grace of God go I? That’s me.” He leaned over the counter and somehow managed to make eating take-out sexy. “You had loving parents, security, and an annoyingly protective big brother–who was scary smart like you, so you always had someone to make your path a bit smoother–and I didn’t.”

Sherlock stared down at his arms as if he could see the track marks through the sleeve. “I turned inward.”

“And I turned out.”

After dinner, Jim produced two slices of cheesecake drizzled with syrup, and it looked like the fake blood you see in the movies. He looked at the sparkle in Jim’s eyes as he bit into it, and the blood stained teeth look when he grinned, and he knew it was deliberate.

“I like your sense of humor a lot more when it’s fake blood,” Sherlock said quietly.

“No, you don’t: you just don’t like it being anyone you care about.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, “I like not having to worry that my friends would be upset with me.”

“Ah… a curse, that.” He sighed, “Me, too.”

Jim held out a glass as a toast and said, “To all those silly ordinary people whose friendship saved the world from us.”

Sherlock nodded and touched glasses.

They sat on the sofa and talked about tattoos and murders and all the clever, clever things you could do with finances and computers… and somehow the conversation orbited back to their old lives and their first meetings.

“I thought I could just play with you and walk away, you know… at first,” Jim said with his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Just something to stave off the boredom”

“When… did you change your mind?”

“I don’t think there was one moment when. I think it was just like… a thousand steps, and at some point you realize that you can’t even see where you started anymore.”

Sherlock nodded. “I tried to deny it. Everyone else saw it before I did.”

“Like how I apparently babble my head off about you and didn’t notice?”

“John complained about how I talked about you… rather a lot.”

“John was alright: I was impressed with him, actually.”

“He’s very important to me.”

“I know. He had the best of the shitty snipers on him.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh. “Why? So they might hit him?”

“Well, they weren’t completely incompetent! I actually figured he’d be insulted if the sniper on him wasn’t halfway decent–it was a sign of respect.”

Sherlock grinned, “We are so fucked up.”

Jim grinned back, “Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“Bunch of ridiculous chemical nonsense.”

“Yup.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are 22 cards in the Major Arcana (or the Journey of the soul) in the Tarot deck


End file.
